


Lie Down in the Darkness, Rise up from the Ash

by Dwimordene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Canon - Non-canonical to good purpose, Canon - Outstanding AU/reinterpretation, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Good villain(s), Characters - New interpretation, Characters - Outstanding OC(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Characters - Well-handled romance/eroticism, Drama, Fellowship of the Ring, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Dangerous topic w/satisfying end, Plot - Disturbing/frightening/unsettling, Plot - Fast moving, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Plot - Joy, Plot - Surprising reversals, Plot - Tear-jerker, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Explores obscure facts, Subjects - Geography, Subjects - Legends/Myth/History, Subjects - Medical/Healing, Subjects - Military, Subjects - Politics, War of the Ring, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Experimental, Writing - Foreshadowing, Writing - Good use of humor, Writing - Mythic/Poetic, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2002-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:33:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 49
Words: 278,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4215049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dwimordene/pseuds/Dwimordene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a VERY dark AU for LOTR. The premise: without Gollum, how does the Quest turn out? Angsty drama ensues as the storyline of the Lord of the Rings unfolds differently as we attempt to take "the road less traveled by." NEW CHAPTERS: 46,47 and 48: "The Fires of Orodruin," "Discant," and "Oilima Markirya." Features Frodo, Sam, Pippin, Merry, Boromir, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Gandalf, Arwen, Eomer, Eowyn, Theoden, Faramir, Denethor, and others.<br/><br/>DONE! Revisions made to chapters 46 and 47; additional chapter 48 added. Okay, now, really, seriously - done!<br/> <br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Arrow of Fate

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Galadir sighed softly, gazing up at the immense fir tree that spread its branches overhead. At the very top there was a bulge, and the Elf warden shook his head in a disgusted manner and glanced over at his companion. Erinoth fingered his bow and stared out into the night, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

"'Tis near midnight, my friend," Galadir said, casting another dark look at the bulge. "And I tire of this game! Does he think to stay there the whole night?"

"I know not. What matter if he does? Ere dawn he will descend again, for he cannot bear the sunlight. Have patience!" Erinoth replied.

"Nay, he has tried my patience once too often, and will he or nill he, he shall return now with us," Galadir said, pulling on his gloves in preparation for scaling the rough-barked tree.

"Have a care! He threw Anardil from his perch last time, and Anardil still wears a sling!" Erinoth warned.

Galadir merely grunted in response, already picking his way through the lower branches. The prisoner was a twisted, pitiful thing indeed, and though Galadir agreed that he ought not to be left in his cell to mutter in the darkness, it was too much that this Sméagol-creature should impose thus upon them all.

As he climbed, he looked out over the forest, which showed dark and indistinct on a moonless night. In the distance, vaguely, he could see the malevolent peak of Dol Guldur, and he shuddered, staring at it. For some reason it caught his eye tonight, and perhaps it was merely his imagination or a trick of the eye, but it seemed to waver like smoke, or as if a thousand dark tentacles gripped and writhed all about it. Galadir found he could not take his eyes off of it, strangely absorbed by that eerie display, and so it was that he did not at first notice the _other_ dark trail that wended its way beneath Mirkwood's eaves.

It was only Erinoth's cry that roused him and he tore his eyes from the tower, looking down to see, to his horror, the misshapen Orcs come spilling from the trees. Their harsh voices echoed in a battle cry, and Erinoth was overborne, buried beneath their clawed forms.

A hiss sounded suddenly near at hand, and Galadir jerked his head up to see two pale, luminous eyes a bare foot away.

"Nassty cruel Elfff!" Sméagol hissed. Then more loudly, he called, "It esscapesss! Help usss, preciousss! It escapesessss!"

Below, the Orcs cried out, pointing upwards, and Sméagol, with a horrible, gurgling cackle, leapt past Galadir to drop onto another branch, clearly bent on escaping himself. Galadir glanced down again, and saw that the Orcs were beginning to climb, were already in the lower branches. Then he looked out again at the small, fleeing back, and made his decision.

Using his legs to brace himself against the trunk and a sturdy branch, he reached back and pulled bow and arrow into his hands. With the care of an artisan, he took aim and pressed, ignoring the laughter of his enemies, and his keen eyes narrowed.

_There!_ With a sharp _twang!_ an arrow whistled through the night, and there came a shriek, and then a small, dark form plummeted to the earth and lay utterly still.

Galadir let fall his bow, that task complete, and he pulled a dagger from his belt. The Orcs were still climbing, and would reach him soon.

_But I shall not go quietly into the night!_ he vowed, and smiled as he faced his murderers.

_And on a plane far above the physical, something bent, giving almost to the breaking point, and then suddenly it twisted itself, creating a ripple in the pattern of fate, and something new began to grow…_

_  
_

It was evening in Rivendell, and the little wisps of dark clouds made the October sky seem bruised by the night that pressed upon the brilliant horizon. On the porch, an old grey figure stood, wreathed in contemplative smoke, so intent upon his thoughts he did not note when another joined him quietly.

"Will you not tell me, old friend, what it is that weighs so heavily upon your mind?" Gandalf looked up to find Aragorn standing at his side, arms folded across his chest as he, too, gazed out at the valley of Rivendell. The Ranger had clearly planned his approach carefully, which did not surprise the wizard, but given the news from the day's council, Gandalf did wonder how much Aragorn had guessed already of his concerns.

"Naught that I can explain in precise terms, dear boy." Aragorn smiled slightly at that, for it was a standing joke between them.

"I ask not for precision, for I know well that I am no wizard," the Ranger replied.

"Hmmph!" Gandalf snorted, but then sighed and shook his head. "If you would know truly, I like not the news that Legolas brought."

"Grievous news, but I see not why the deaths of two elvish guards should be cause for such concern."

"I meant Gollum's death, Aragorn," Gandalf said, a trifle impatiently, and Aragorn gave him a skeptical look.

"To me, that seemed the only encouraging part of his message. Sméagol was incurable, and a danger to all had he in fact escaped."

"It seems so on the surface, and prudence tells me no differently," the wizard replied. "But when I heard that, my heart misgave me, and I felt my very marrow freeze! There is great evil in that death, my friend," he sighed, laying a hand upon Aragorn's shoulder, "and the consequences are literally unthinkable. I fear we may rue it greatly in the end."

"I see not how," said Aragorn, but he paused and pursed his lips, considering the matter. "Well," he said at last, "if you say your heart misgives you, then I must defer to your judgment. How, after all, shall a Man argue with a wizard?"

"Rigorously and often, if you are any example!" Gandalf replied instantly, with a trace of his usual quick humor. But then it faded, and Aragorn, frowning, asked:

"Think you that we ought to reconsider our plans?"

"That would serve no purpose. To remain here, or flee west is to bring certain doom upon us. There is still hope, however little, that the route to the fire shall remain open long enough for the Ringbearer to unmake It. Nay, we must continue. And since we must, tell me of the morning's messengers: what news from Elladan and Elrohir?"

"They have ridden far, down to Lórien and back, and they brought to me news of Saruman's treachery, so that your tale was not wholly new to me today," Aragorn replied, and then gave a slight smile. "They also bring word that Arwen fares well in that land." Gandalf laughed at that, and gave Aragorn a shake.

"I am glad to hear it. More so than you may suspect," the wizard said, his eyes narrowing as his bushy brows drew together. "Yes… I think that even this news is not without merit, my friend, though I know not why I say so." He paused, then shook his head again and looked up at the tall Man at his side, and said in a low voice, "Hear me, son of Arathorn! Say nothing to the others of my fears, I beg you. We have barely begun, the way will be long, and there are some things that I would keep from them, lest they lose heart utterly. I fear our road will be hard—harder, even than they can possibly imagine."

"As you wish," Aragorn replied simply. "I leave tomorrow to see what may be found of the Riders. Mayhap when I return, we shall speak on this again?"

"Perhaps. Walk in safety, my friend!" Gandalf said, and watched as Aragorn strode away. The old lips tightened, and the wizard stroked his beard in an agitated manner.

"Yes," he murmured when the other had gone, "the way will be hard, and perhaps even you, Aragorn, are not prepared to know the truth. A bitter end, I foresee, and hope unlooked for, though I know not how it shall be born, should we fail." In the distance, he heard light voices lifted in laughter, and recognized the hobbits, Merry and Pippin, as they came strolling out of the forest. "And if you cannot, then how shall their gentle hearts bear such doom as I prophesy?"

The wizard sighed once more, then carefully locked his fears and worries away in the vault of his mind, where they could do no injury to the innocent.

_Time will tell_ , he thought, striving to seem determined. But if the hobbits greeted him without suspicion, Gandalf's dissembling was strictly for others. He could not lie to himself, and when he turned his eyes to the western horizon, he saw darkness falling upon all the land.


	2. Bridge Into Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to a German Benedictine nun named Hildegaard von Bingen for the idea that the Devil cannot sing.

__The Song of the World is a melody so complex, so perfectly entwined within its own harmony, that even a single new note may change it; and yet at the same time, because it is so integrally itself, the course of its Music does not shift, even in the face of severe dissonance. Not all things change, though all the rest of a stave may shift about them._ _

__So it was that the Company's journey south, ordained by the Song, was made still, but under the new shadow it led them through new verses… and yet they were destined still to pass the long leagues of Eriador. Caradhras loomed still large in the Music born of the disharmony; the snows still beat them from the mountains slopes, and the Watcher remained still to drive them into the depths of Moria.__

__And their hearts were heavy, for though none but Gandalf could hear the changing of the Notes, all sensed it, though they knew not that there was any "change" to speak of. The Song simply was, and they existed in its midst, ignorant of its manifold possibilities… and of the fact that they stood now on a path bound into the Soundlessness of the Void…._ _

__  
_ _

Frodo trudged wearily along, following Gandalf in the darkness, and he felt his burden heavy. Moria passed all about him, seemingly endless, concealed in a cloak of tragedy and fear that pressed close on all sides. Nothing seemed to go right on this journey: the disastrous attempt to pass the Redhorn Gate had only seemed to strengthen the fearful mood that had hovered over their departure from Rivendell. Then the birds, the wolves, and the Watcher had further sapped the spirits of the Company, and now they wandered the long-deserted halls of the Black Pit of Khazad-dûm. Yet they continued, and so he hoped still that he might find a way to the fulfillment of the quest.

Gandalf paused suddenly ahead of him, and Frodo would have collided with him had his stride been any longer; as it was, his momentum carried him right up to the hem of the wizard's cloak, as Gandalf stood examining the empty space before them. Behind them, there came the sound of feet shuffling awkwardly to a halt, as everyone stumbled a bit at the unexpected pause.

Glancing back, Frodo saw the dim outlines of his companions: Merry and Pippin, standing close for comfort, and Sam, looking ill at ease but determined. Beyond them was Gimli, and some distance further away stood Legolas the Elf, whom Frodo recognized instantly in the darkness by the faint glitter that seemed to emanate from him – a hint, perhaps, of the inner fire that dwelt in the elvish race. And between Elf and Dwarf, as always, lurked the tall, broad shadow of Boromir.

__Poor Boromir__ _,_ Frodo thought, feeling a ghost of a smile rise in him. __I think he is not best pleased to be ever pinned between those two!__ For the Man of Gondor served more often than not as a physical barrier between Elf and Dwarf, neither of whom were willing to come any closer to each other than necessity required. The hobbit guessed that if Boromir had not come with them on this journey, they would have made Aragorn their wall. Indeed, it seemed to him that the only reason Strider was spared that difficult position was a prior friendship with Legolas, which the Elf was unwilling to hazard in this almost childish animosity.

"Gimli," Gandalf spoke then, striding forward, and the Dwarf grunted and followed. The two went and stood together before the looming maw of a great door, and to either side by the light of Gandalf's staff showed dimly the lintels of another door, leading off into still more darkness. Behind him, a sigh gusted softly, and Frodo guessed that was Boromir, either enjoying the respite or else annoyed at the delay, or both together.

After some moments, Gandalf spoke again, "Well, I do not remember this place at all!" He paused, holding aloft his staff for some moments, and then he said, with a shake of his head, "And Gimli can give me no insight, either. Better that we take what rest we can for the remainder of the night, I think, for I expect all now are as weary as I am, or more."

The tension eased a bit, as everyone brightened at the thought of rest. Merry and Pippin, eagerly seeking a place to lie in seeming safety, were quick to discover a little space beyond a half-closed door. But as they made quickly to open it and enter, the wizard forestalled them.

"Steady!" Gandalf said sharply, restraining the young hobbits with the snap of his voice. "Let me go first, and see what may lie before us, for you know not what may be within."

The Company crowded close in behind Gandalf nonetheless, but the wizard had gone only a few paces when the light from his staff revealed a hole in the ground: the remains of a well, it seemed. From behind and above Frodo came Aragorn's mildly reproving voice, which nevertheless held a note of amusement for the younger hobbits' familiar antics:

"One of you might have fallen in and still be wondering when he would strike the bottom. Let the guide go first while you have one!" Though softly spoken, Aragorn's words reverberated chillingly off the walls of the hall, filling the air with mocking, whispering echos: … _ _while you have one… have one… while you have one… one…ne….__

After that, even the silence was welcome.

__A stone pitched in the dark. Signals in the depths. In the night beneath the mountains, drums were readied – as ever they would have been. Yet Notes were turning, Silence was falling fast. Was there yet a way to miss the Void that the absence of one bent and tinny note had made? One silence makes another and – even if ever foreordained, which is perhaps uncertain – lends it power, which uneasy hearts may glimpse..._ _

__  
_ _

Some hours and one foolish stone's throw and worrisome report later, Frodo lay exhausted in the little nook that he had claimed to sleep in, but sleep toyed gently with him without ever descending. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, but to no avail. Memory of those hammer strokes from deep in the well haunted him, riding on the current of his unease. What had Pippin wakened? And when would it show itself?

Of a sudden, in the darkness at his back, he heard the rustle of clothes and then soft footsteps as someone rose and moved. His ears pricked up, curious but also fearful, wondering if one of the others had heard something new to alarm him. But then Gandalf's voice sounded, greeting one unseen in a soft voice:

"Well, it is later indeed, my friend." And to Frodo's surprise, the wizard spoke not Westron, nor even Sindarin, but Quenya, which Frodo could understand only generally. In spite of the dread that welled up within him – for he guessed that Gandalf did not wish this conversation to be understood by any save the one to whom he spoke (and Frodo knew now whom the other must be) – he eavesdropped, translating frantically. And what he heard filled his heart with foreboding….

* * *

"Well, it is later indeed, my friend," Gandalf said as Aragorn wandered over. The Ranger braced his back against the stony doorframe and then slid easily to the floor, sitting with his legs crossed and his hands in his lap. But if his posture betrayed no worry, his grey eyes, lit in their depths with an eerie red by Gandalf's dim flame, were troubled. The wizard quirked a brow, and demanded, "For do I not guess correctly that you would speak to me upon those matter which we discussed in Imladris?"

"I would. Later still might be more… apt… but I fear there may be no other time, Gandalf. For the dread I conceived before Caradhras has not abated, and I see now in your every step a last one," Aragorn replied, gazing with concern through the curling tendrils of smoke at the fire-lit, seamed face of the wizard. The cares of a millenium rested there, in that aged visage, and Aragorn frowned. In all the years that he had known Gandalf, he had never thought of him as old. Ancient, in the timeless manner of Elves, yes, but old? Physically bowed by the unbearable pressure of too many centuries of struggle, even as a mortal creature?

__Never that!__ But tonight, as the Ranger stared at the wizard, it seemed to him that for the first time, Gandalf looked his age and he feared what that might mean. __So much rides upon him__ _,_ he thought, __and yet beyond Moria, I can see him no more among us. My heart tells me that death comes soon to you, Gandalf my friend, and what I would not give to be proven wrong!__ It gave him chills to think further down that path, to a world without Gandalf, but he steeled himself out of habit and prepared to follow that grim trail still further if he could. __For one must forget how to flinch if one would meddle in a wizard's affairs.__

"That is as may be. It is not given me to know my end; 'tis a blind spot for us all, perhaps," the wizard replied, and wondered at himself for that oblique warning. Aragorn seemed not to notice it, though, which was perhaps good. Or else, he might have taken the remark to mean no more than it said. "What shall I say?" he finally asked. "The darkness grows, as we knew it would, and it veils the land. And in the end, it matters not, for we are committed. Even were the domination of Sauron now upon us, insurmountable save by means the Valar alone know, we would still be bound to do that which is right, accepting the consequences as they came."

"True," said the Dúnadan, "and I do not seek to know that safety lies ahead, for any of us. I would, though, know what hope you have, for I think you were not wholly frank with me in Imladris. This matter of Gollum troubles you still, and more deeply than you would admit to any."

"I fear I can say little more on that matter than what I have already disclosed," Gandalf replied, inhaling deeply the sweet-scented smoke. "Those who have borne the Ring are marked by it, and about them does our fate revolve. Even one so small and filled with malice as Sméagol has great significance, and his death, too, will mark this age. Is that enough for you?"

"Even were it not, I think you would say no more," Aragorn replied heavily, and glanced about at the sleeping bodies. "Have you decided which gate to take?"

"My mind is made up. But we are all in need of rest," said Gandalf, stressing the last word slightly as he scowled in Aragorn's direction. For his part, the Ranger only smiled and held up his hands in acquiescence.

"I go, I go! Trust me to have some sense!" And Aragorn rose and went silently back to his corner, where he wrapped himself in his cloak and lay down. The veteran of many a lonely and wary journey, he had no trouble falling instantly asleep in spite of fear…

… but Frodo son of Drogo remained awake, and felt his heart pounding in his breast at what he had overheard. He trusted Strider's judgment implicitly, as he had ever since they had left Bree in spite of Sam's misgivings; if he were worried, that was cause enough for alarm. But if Gandalf himself found cause for concern in Gollum's death – and oh, how Frodo's own words in the Shire came back to haunt him now! – then the situation must be grave indeed.

__They are trying to protect me,__ he thought. __Gandalf and Aragorn, and all of the others, from everything that they can foresee, but no one can save me from myself. Have I a hope? I know not! Elbereth Gilthoniel, why should this age of the world suffer so?__

To that, Frodo knew there could be no answer, and he hardened his heart against his own fears:

__Gandalf speaks rightly: it matters not what may happen; what matters is that I do what is right. I must take the Ring to the Fire. I must try, and let nothing I hear or feel stop me!_ _

__  
_ _

__Resolution came not too soon, for at the edge of the Silence there loomed still the Bridge of Khazad-dûm – its span the last tendril that would bear the Company into the rift of the growing Disharmony. Resolution made a new Note, a welcome one, and yet grief sounds the more loudly for never having been voiced, and foreboding makes loss more bitter than poison.__

__Beneath Gandalf's staff broke the bridge of Khazad-dûm – one Silence joined another, and drew worse lament for the terrible wisdom that entered the world then. Child of knowledge or of grief, none could have said, save One, but all recourse out of the Void failed irrevocably when fell Olórin of Valinor._ _

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thanks to a German Benedictine nun named Hildegaard von Bingen for the idea that the Devil cannot sing.


	3. Falling

__For then into the Song came the great Silence, and even the least were not untouched by it…._ _

"Ai! ai! A Balrog! A Balrog is come!"

Pippin tore his eyes from the towering horror that stood before them and glanced up at the Elf. Legolas's eyes were wide, and his teeth were bared in a grimace of hatred and anguish so strong that the hobbit felt nausea roil through his already cramped stomach.

Then Gimli moved to stand beside the elven prince, heedless for once of the animosity he bore for his companion. The Dwarf's horror was no less great than Legolas's, and he slipped heavily to his knees as a harsh whisper emerged from his lips:

"Durin's Bane!" Then, as if overborne by the sight, he cast his hood over his face.

Pippin looked from Dwarf to Elf and then back again, unable yet to comprehend their words but equally unable to bear to turn back to the bridge. Nearby, Frodo stood gaping, sheet-white with some terrible emotion, and his left hand clutched his chest just at the level where the Ring should lie concealed on its chain about his neck.

__What is happening? What do I do?_ _ Pippin felt utterly at a loss, seeking reassurance that _someone_ among them knew how to deal with this fell thing.

"A Balrog," breathed Gandalf, shaking his head in wonder. "Now I understand. What an evil fortune, for I am already weary!"

The wizard stared a moment longer, then his old face hardened and his eyes gleamed. Of a sudden, he was striding back onto the bridge, moving with a vigor that belied his words, and Pippin gasped, unable to imagine what the wizard intended. He had wanted surety in action, but it was a fool's errand to go back onto that narrow span of stone, surely…!

" _ _Gandalf__ _!_ " Aragorn's voice sounded harsh and strained – __And afraid__ , Pippin thought miserably – but then the Ranger was sprinting after Gandalf, sword drawn. Boromir, too, gave a cry, though it sounded more like a curse. Pippin had been too stunned to move when Aragorn did, but now he perceived the other Man's intentions and something stirred in his heart. With a shout of his own, and without thinking clearly what he did, he lunged forward and caught the edge of Boromir's cloak.

If he had thought to try and restrain him, though, that hope was quickly dashed, for the Man of Gondor seemed not to notice the hobbit's weight at all: he dragged Pippin forward almost to the brink before the hobbit thought to let go and drop back from the precipice.

"W-what…? Wait! Come back!" Pippin cried, or rather croaked, and then swallowed any further words in terror. His eyes were drawn irresistibly upward, to the looming figure in the midst of all that blackness; something like awe blossomed in his breast, and it pulsed sickly there. It came into Pippin's head, briefly and confusedly, that _this_ was a power of the world, and that before its black master they would bow in the end! And then all within him was stilled as Gandalf's challenge rang clear and desperate in the hot air.

"You cannot pass," he said. The Orcs stood still, and a dead silence fell. "I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass!"

Pippin quailed and flinched, unable to watch the blow descend. But then came the clash and ring of steel on steel, clear even through the blood pounding in his ears, and the young hobbit managed to open one eye to peer fearfully at the frozen tableau.

Gandalf and the Balrog still faced each other, but the Balrog's sword was no where in evidence, while Glamdring glowed white. Some ten paces behind the wizard stood Aragorn, and a pace or two behind him Boromir, and the tall silhouettes of the two Men were poised to spring forward should their help be needed. Yet Pippin guessed that they, too, were held in place by the power of the demon, unable to break free until something changed–

The Balrog let out a roar, and it leapt high, its whip streaking outward in a dark blur. At that same moment, Gandalf cried aloud and rammed his staff down upon the white stone. The staff shattered and fell away, and Pippin was momentarily blinded by an intense light. It was slow to fade from the hobbits' eyes, but when it did, he saw that the bridge was cracked beneath the Balrog. Yet the battle was not over, and Pippin stared, struck dumb by amazed grief as time moved forward once more….

* * *

The instant that Gandalf smote the bridge, Aragorn felt the spell broken, and he gasped, flinging up an arm to protect his eyes from the stabbing light.

"Valar save us!" Boromir's prayer was nearly lost in the explosive sound of stone that split itself asunder. Nevertheless, Aragorn heard it, and a part of his mind spared a moment to add his own petition, but he feared it was too late – that it had been too late for Gandalf from the moment the Balrog had appeared, just as they had crossed the bridge.

__It was too late the moment we entered this pit,__ his inner voice snapped bitterly, cursing his own impotence. Never had he loathed foresight more than in this moment, for he knew that he was powerless to prevent what was about to occur. But that did not stop him from trying to stave off fate nonetheless, and, sheathing his sword, Aragorn lunged desperately forward….

* * *

The Balrog's whip burned through the air and the thongs curled about the wizard's legs. Gandalf cried out, falling to his knees as he was pulled bodily towards the abyss. Instinctively, his hands shot out, seeking purchase on the too-smooth stone, knowing it was a futile effort.

__The Ring! O my brother, you will not have the Ring at least,__ Gandalf thought, and braced himself for the headlong plummet into darkne–

A jolt ran through his body as something caught him, and the wizard looked up in shock to see Aragorn staring back at him. The Ranger had his arm, and he slowed Gandalf's sliding descent enough for Gandalf to latch onto the stony protrusion of what was left of the bridge. The strength granted a Maia in utmost need is greater than any Man's, and it was Gandalf rather than Aragorn who held them briefly on that precipice, as the Balrog fell still below him on its long whip. But he could not hold on forever, and Gandalf knew it. So did Aragorn, but he did not release him, and there was a challenge in his eyes that the wizard knew well: Let Sauron himself come forth, the Ranger would not be forced to leave a friend in need.

"Fly, you fool! Live!" It was all Gandalf could manage in the seconds remaining him, and then he shoved Aragorn back, breaking free… and was borne into the chasm.

* * *

Pippin felt a keen rise up in him as Gandalf disappeared, but it never left his throat for it died aborning, crushed by the bedlam darkness that seemed to crash down upon them all. Upon the bridge, Aragorn seemed unable to move, but Boromir yanked him to his feet and after a moment's hesitation, they both turned and fled as the bridge crumbled in their wake. Still stunned himself, Pippin did not at first realize that he was in their way until Boromir tripped over him and fell hard. Aragorn, forewarned, managed to throw himself to one side, and he rolled and came smoothly to his feet again.

A bruised and much chagrined Pippin crawled toward them, and as he looked up at Aragorn, the Ranger looked down and met his eyes. The light of Strider's eyes seemed extinguished by grief, but then Aragorn bestirred himself, reaching out to shepherd Pippin firmly back towards the remainder of the Company, while Boromir picked himself up from the ground.

"Come! I will lead you now!" Aragorn said, and his voice was taut as a drawn bow, but nevertheless it was the voice of authority, a voice which knew it had to be obeyed in this moment.

"We must obey his last command," he continued, giving Pippin a shove and forcing Sam and Frodo forward with his body while Merry staggered alongside. The hobbits, dazed, moved in one huddled mass, trusting Strider blindly as they had in the beginning. Legolas and Gimli, suddenly aware of each other again, paused uncertainly, and Aragorn called out over his shoulder with a trace of impatience, "Follow me!"

At last, they did, and Boromir, grim and silent, brought up the rear. Once they had begun to move, it seemed their legs took on a life of their own, and soon all were running through the last hewn hallway, plunging ahead heedlessly, seeking only to leave Moria behind at last. The gates loomed bright before them, seeming to mock their grief for having been so very near at hand. Pippin wept as he ran, and he swiped at his eyes, unwilling to fall now and delay them.

Something hot splattered on his face, and he blinked them open again quickly, staring in horror as his hands came away bloody from his cheeks. Then he saw the headless Orc captain, and saw Andúril flash red in the sunlight as they spilled out of the eastern gates, and he understood. It was a measure of his discomposure that he did not think to wipe the blood away. All the way to the eaves of the Golden Wood he bore it, as if it were the proscription of Fate itself.

__Upon the land of Lórien there lay no stain of evil, unless one brought it thither oneself. But the Music was changed, and they lay now in the heart of the Silent Void. Galadriel, who sat upon the throne of Lothlórien, was troubled in her heart, and so the land itself knew doubt, for she could not defend it against that which the Void woke in her…_ _

Tears burned hot against his lashes, but they did not fall. Yet that was not due to any strength of will on Pippin's part, but to the blindfold that drank them in. With a start, he woke fully, disoriented for a moment before memory returned.

__We are in Lórien, passing blindfolded through the land,__ he thought, and wondered if he ought to be relieved. But though he walked now in safety, led by the elvish guards, he felt nothing, unless it were a dull ache for the fact of his continued existence. __Gandalf is dead! He died for us… died to save us… to save me! Why?__

It made no sense to one Peregrin Took, and he pressed at the bandage, grateful that no one but their guides could see him. And perhaps the others, too, relished this time of private grief. Pippin sighed and lay still, thinking.

Though he knew better, the journey to Lórien had seemed to stretch on into eternity. Aragorn had led them on from the gates at such a pace that even Boromir had been winded when they had come to a halt. The hobbits had collapsed in their tracks, exhausted and grieving, and the Company had surrendered at last to helpless tears. Pippin had wept in the circle of Merry's arms, while Frodo and Sam had sat together. He had been too absorbed by his own sense of loss to note the manner in which the others mourned.

Finally, Aragorn had roused them all, reminding them of the danger of vengeful Orcs, but the look that he had cast back at the mountains had been as close to murderous as Pippin had ever seen. He had not actually thought Strider could carry such rage within him, and he shuddered at the memory, wondering what it meant.

When at last they had reached Nimrodel, Pippin had been staggering and half asleep on his feet. Though Legolas and Aragorn had seemed relieved to have come at last under the eaves of the golden woods, even there they had not been wholly without fear. For Legolas had cocked his head and listened to the stream, which carried a music in its rushing falls, and he had frowned. For the song of Nimrodel was disturbed: it lured the ear, and yet it did not quite achieve melody, wavering between song and sickness.

"I like it not," Legolas had said. "There is something amiss even here!" Boromir, who had not liked this path from the beginning, had darted a dark look at Aragorn's back upon hearing that, as if he counted this pronouncement as evidence of the malice of Lothlórien.

__And what would make him do such a thing?__ Pippin wondered briefly. He had not taken Boromir for a grudge-holder, and he was glad that Aragorn had missed that resentful gaze. Having glimpsed briefly Strider's own anger, he decided that he would not want to be present if the two Men ever found reason truly to quarrel.

Of course, Boromir was back to being stuck between the openly resentful Gimli and Legolas, which had to be a trying place to be, though the Man made no effort to escape the tedious duty. Pippin sighed again. He knew too little of the history of the Elves and Dwarves to understand what drove such relentless hostility, however muted, but he knew better than to ask. Even Gandalf had not wanted to broach that subject.

In the mean time, he knew not where he went, trusting the guides to lead them well, and he wondered at the changes that he felt within himself. Once, he would have been content to lean upon the guidance of Frodo and Gandalf and the others without question, but now… now he flung himself after Men twice his size in efforts to save them! Now he found himself watching his companions closely for the first time, and though his gaze remained light, he had begun to notice things. Frodo seemed so tired and grave at times, and Gandalf was gone. Strider's thoughts were veiled as always, but it was clear that he was worried, and Boromir had suddenly (or so it seemed to him) grown moody.

For a hobbit new to the wide world, it was all overwhelming, and for the moment he wanted nothing more than for this journey to end.

* * *

__Unbowed and fair were leaf and glen_ _

__Within the realm of Lórien__

 _

_But falt'ring Song no Child can mend_

_

__Alas, alas, for Lórien!_ _

* * *

Galadriel stood silently upon the edge of the __talan__ , and gazed out over her realm as it lay under the twilight.

__Lothlórien the Beautiful, fairest land of the Elves in exile. How I grieve for all that shall pass away! Even here, the stars do not shine so brightly as once they did. Alas, that the Shadow of the East lies no longer only in Mordor,__ she thought, remembering the hard words in the council. She had sensed the pain that the Company bore from the moment that they entered her realm, and she had also missed Gandalf's presence among them.

But she had not seen – or perhaps had not wished to see – how the one inspired the other until Aragorn had told their tale of woe. There was no comfort to be had in words, and she had had to release them without it, saying only that they should have refuge here until they were prepared to go on. For if the stain of her own troubled heart lay upon the land, still it was a restful place, and she imbued it with the desire to forget, to set aside the darkness that crowded upon its borders.

__At least Gimli now knows some peace_ ,_ she thought, smiling at the memory of the Dwarf's sincere gratitude for her words to him. __At least I have still the power to ease some hearts… though not all,__ she thought.

Galadriel sighed. She had looked into the hearts of the eight companions, and knew well the fears and temptations that pushed ever more sharply against the demands of conscience and duty. Boromir, she sensed, suffered more than any other, and she felt an immense pity for him. Yet she could not help him, for he did not trust her. What would become of him, she knew not, but she wished him well.

As for Aragorn, who had now to assume the mantle that Gandalf had let fall, it was not her words that he needed to hear, and she knew that her granddaughter was not in her chambers. She did not doubt where she might find Arwen at this moment, and she smiled slightly.

Last but not least in her thoughts was the Ring-bearer, Frodo son of Drogo, for Galadriel felt the tug of warring desires within her. On the one hand, she wanted nothing more than the success of his mission for the salvation of all, knowing well the burden that he bore. And on the other hand, there was, of course, temptation.

__The longer he remains with us, the more will the malice of Sauron's tool make itself felt in my heart. I know what I must do, but ah! How carefully does Námo take our measure in the end!_ _

And yet she could not resist the desire to touch once more upon Frodo's mind, and she felt his agonized fear, his doubt. Some debate, she guessed, took place among the Company, for she felt the touch of other thoughts, tense, confused, uncertain… then all faded from her mind as she let go Frodo's thought.

At last, she sighed, and turned her head and smiled sadly at Celeborn, who had come noiselessly up behind her. Her husband spoke no word of greeting, only wrapped his arms about her and pressed his cheek against hers. She laid her hands atop his, and Nenya glittered upon her finger, winking bewitchingly at her, like a lost star.

__Let us not fall into the darkness!_ _ She sent her thought out to whatever power might hear it, and knew not yet that it was too late indeed to escape it.

* * *

Aragorn sat with his back to a great tree, legs crossed, hands resting lightly upon his knees, and he savored the knowledge that there was no one about him for miles. He should have remained with the others, he knew, but he simply could not bear to face them and their pain as well as his own. The fear that had haunted him ever since that long ago conversation with Gandalf in Rivendell had at last been borne out upon the bridge of Khazad-dûm, and his own self-control was near to breaking.

For, unlike the rest of the Company, Aragorn had enjoyed a long and intimate friendship with Gandalf, and the wizard was more than a guide to him, however dear. His thoughts returned incessantly to Moria, to the bridge and to the terrible sense of helplessness as Gandalf had writhed violently out of his grasp. That he could not have saved the wizard in any case – that Gandalf, indeed, had not wanted him to try – was no comfort at all to one who had loved him as a second father.

But there was more, even: for in that moment before Gandalf had escaped him, as he had ordered him to run, the wizard had looked straight into his eyes, and Aragorn son of Arathorn had felt a spark leap between them. And suddenly, he had _known._ He _had known_ _,_ with dreadful certainty and clarity, what it was that Gandalf had concealed from them, and in that very moment he had misdoubted his own strength.

__How can I carry this? How can anyone bear such a burden?_ _ His mind shied away even now from the contemplation of that presentiment. Before the others, Aragorn could not pretend that all was well; he could not even summon the strength to keep his pain safely inside, where it could harm no one. In the swift journey south from Dimrill Dale, he had tried to push the pace not simply because of the danger of pursuit, but because he knew of only one way to stop his mind from thinking: physical exhaustion. But he was bound to others who could not match his speed, and so he had been forced to wait for them, feeling guilty for having tested the limits of their endurance for no reason but a selfish one.

And so, after washing, he had gone not back to the clearing beneath Caras Galadon.

Instead, he had slipped away and wandered in the glades of Lórien, having for once no particular destination in mind. And yet, once he had reached this isolated hillock, with its screen of gold-leafed _mellyrn_ trees and grass laden with sleeping _elenyr_ , he felt as though he had always intended to come there. It was now late indeed, and he had been sitting there for long hours, but he felt no desire to return yet. Though he supposed his companions were long since asleep, he had no heart for company of any kind.

"If that be so, my love, then I fear you will be disappointed," came a soft voice, near at hand, and Aragorn glanced sharply left.

There he beheld the slender, grey-clad form of Arwen as she paused and stood a moment against the trees. A small silver lamp she held, and its soft light cast wavering shadows upon her, giving the illusion that she shimmered as her namesake did. Then came she unbidden to his side and sat gracefully, draping her skirts about her as she set the lantern down.

She reached out and gently touched his face with her fingertips, and her eyes gleamed in the night. "Have you no word for one who has long missed you?"

"Arwen…." Words failed him momentarily, and he closed his eyes, feeling the heat of her body as she leaned close and kissed him lightly on the mouth. __Will I ever touch her again, once I leave this place?__ No new question, that – it was ever with him, whenever they met, yet there was more in it this time. ____How many times have I drunk her kisses like wine and hoped for a day beyond the Shadows?__ Now though…. "How did you find me?"

With a soft laugh, and a light touch as she smoothed a lock of hair from his eyes, she replied, "As I always do." Aragorn caught her hand in his, and she gazed solemnly at him in the close darkness. "I know you mourn, Estel," said she, and her tone was gentle and sad, "and I can taste your grief as my own, and your fear also. But why suffer alone?"

Aragorn sighed and shook his head, lowering his eyes as he sought an excuse. "I am not fit company tonight, beloved… for anyone." He started to look away, but Arwen laid her hand to the side of his face and restrained him, forcing him to look at her as she leaned close, and he saw that she was troubled.

"Aragorn, will you then hide even from me, who would be your wife? Shall the darkness drive you ever from me, even when we are together? Beloved, look to your own heart and have a care, for break it in your solitude and I cannot help you!" Arwen replied earnestly, and her eyes pierced him to the core, laying bare the wounds he bore. Aragorn felt his breath catch hard, even as Arwen urged, "Let me see you: speak!"

It would wound her, if he did not. That was certain; moreover, he _wanted_ to yield, to let her see what he hid from the world and perhaps know some relief. But to say it... there he hesitated, feeling himself poised on the brink, and he feared to lean too far lest he fall.

_Too late for fear – we are already falling, all of us,_ unwanted foresight retorted, and he shut his eyes. Even Gandalf's death could have been borne, but for that knowledge.

"Estel," Arwen murmured.

_"That name is forfeit!" The repudiation slipped out ere he could stop it, and he opened his eyes to find her watching him, grave and grieved and wide with dark wonderment now._ _ _ _Too late__ _,__ mocked the voice of knowledge. _____A long time__ _ _too late!___ And since it was:

"How if you should fall with me, Arwen?" he managed at last. "I would not deliver you to darkness, but if what I have seen is true..."

"Say on," she urged when he trailed off. "Aragorn – what have you seen?"

He shook his head, futile denial, even as he answered: "Gandalf said once that we might greatly rue the death of Sméagol in the end, and I see now what he saw then. There is no end to this Darkness, beloved, only a beginning that stretches out infinitely...."

"Even in Lórien, a stain has fallen – darkness has begun to seep through, and Grandmother is filled with misgiving," Arwen spoke at length and slowly into the charged silence that followed, and he listened as dread leached into her voice, as she confessed: "I had thought, though, that it might pass..."

In horror, then, she cast down her proud eyes, and Aragorn swore bitterly if silently, feeling the rebirth of that fury he had known after their escape from Moria: the despairing fury of one to whom the bitter truth is both unacceptable and yet undeniable. To bear the knowledge of the coming Darkness alone was impossibly hard, but to see Arwen crushed under that same weight of terror was a desecration, and he caught her in his arms, seeking some faint glimmer of hope to comfort her, but he could find none.

Instead, he began to kiss her, desperately at first, then with increasing passion as she responded in kind. Arwen clung to him, unresisting as he laid her down amidst the flowers, and she gave only a little moan when he undid the buttons down the front of her dress.

__Not like this,__ some corner of his mind protested, horrified, even as impatient hands hiked her skirts up about her hips. __Not like this!__

But he could not stop himself. He half-hoped _Arwen_ would stop him, but she seemed to have decided to fall with him. It was weakness – his, theirs – and yet more than that. There was a blindness to their loving that nevertheless bespoke an absolute trust, both of them surrendering to impulse, snatching this one chance to taste, however imperfectly and illicitly, what they had always thought to share one day. Always before, there had been a reason to wait, to hope still for a better day, for such blissful eternity as mortality permitted.

Now, though, bowed beneath Darkness unremitting, the old reasons and constraints no longer sufficed to hold in check the fire that kindled between them, and which grew stronger with each touch. Aragorn felt his very blood burn at Arwen's caresses, and at last surrendered even guilt, abandoning himself to the logic of the abyss, which knew but one law: take, hold, have.

Such was the intensity of the moment that there was no drawing it out, and Aragorn groaned softly, the noise forced from him by the exquisite mixture of pleasure and shame. They lay there entwined, sprawled one atop the other in the grass, and simply to breathe was an effort. All about, the forest was silent, save only for the rustle of wind in the trees, and the pounding of their hearts.

Below him, Arwen's face, lit by the lamp, was flushed and her dark hair, studded now with pale yellow blossoms, spread like an aureole, burnished in places to radiance by the silvery light. Ghostly she seemed, _ethereal_ , and her beauty was now laden with the sadness that comes to all things mortal.

"Arwen," he murmured, fighting for breath and for a coherent thought, but wordless shame was all that seemed to come. When finally, he thought he might have found his voice, it was in his head to apologize profusely for having brought her to this pass, but Arwen reached up and pulled him close, forestalling him with a kiss.

"Be still, my love, and do not draw away from me now!" she whispered. "I made my choice long ago, and when we promised, then was I your wife in spirit even if not in name. And that makes you mine… and I would have you, come what may." She paused, running a fingertip lightly down his chest as she gazed deeply into his eyes. "So speak no words of regret to me, and when you leave again, as you must, then set the memory of tonight against the pain, and let me help carry you through this darkness."

"And if there is no end to it, as you and I foresee?" he asked.

Arwen smiled sadly as she gazed up at him with a knowing look, yet her voice was serene. And such was his love for her that Aragorn felt the spark of that love burn bright against the veils of hopelessness, compelling his belief in spite of himself.

"If there is no end to the night, then so be it," said she, stroking his cheek. "For Aragorn, even in the blackest night, we cannot sorrow forever, even if we should try to do so. There must be – there __will__ be **–** moments of joy, else we do not live!"

After that, they lay silently together in the darkness. Shyly at first, and then with a great tenderness born of their need, they loved each other and were comforted, 'til at last the tears that came were a release; a measure of healing rather than of hurt.

* * *

The sun had just begun to show itself on the eastern horizon when Aragorn at last stood in the tent, and gazed down at the sleeping forms of the Company.

__Well__ , he thought, with a forlorn sort of dignity, __I am back_._

__And in the midst of the Silence, there rose a faint Note, clear and sweet, and then the Music began to change again. But the Void remained, for the time was not ripe, and the Note faded once more…_ _

* * *

**Notes**

_" _Ai! ai! A Balrog! A Balrog is come!"__

__"A Balrog [...] Now I understand. What an evil fortune, for I am already weary!"__

 _

_"Durin's Bane!"_

_"You cannot pass_ ," _he said. The Orcs stood still, and a dead silence fell. "I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass!"_

_

__"Come! I will lead you now! [...] We must obey his last command. Follow me!"_ _

\- all of these drawn directly from: "The Bridge of Khazad-dûm," FOTR. "Fly, you fool!" is from the same chapter, with just one slight change.

__Well, I am back__ \- see "The Grey Havens," ROTK.

__Elenyr_ : _According to the site Ardalambion, __elenyr_ _ should be the Sindarin plural of __elanor_._


	4. Alone Together

 Frodo woke the next morning slowly, and felt for a moment confused by the soft golden light that filtered through the trees and tent. From somewhere nearby, an elvish voice raised itself in song, and the sad melody brought the memory of loss sharply to his mind, making it impossible to sleep again so he rubbed his eyes and then sat up. All about him his companions lay slumbering, and for once none so much as twitched in his sleep.

__We wore ourselves out, doubtless,__ he thought, thinking of the odd and almost painful discussion they had had last night. Chief among the topics of debate had been the unusual audience with Galadriel and Celeborn, for none of them had withstood the gaze of that high lady, and none save perhaps Legolas knew what to make of it. But if he did, the Elf kept the knowledge to himself, for he had said nothing from his place in the corner the night before, content to listen to his more vocal comrades.

"I liked it not," Boromir had said immediately. "What sorcery she sought to cast, I know not, but I trust it not either."

"I don't know about that." Surprisingly, it had been Sam who spoke up in response, and a very thoughtful look indeed he had worn.. "I don't know… it weren't magic, I think, unless all Elves are magic, beggin' your pardon Master Legolas. But it was less about her and more about us, if you understand me, sir."

"I think I do." Pippin had interjected, which had been even more surprising. "It was… well, I saw you blush, Sam, and I thought to myself 'guilty.' And that was exactly how I felt! Guilty! It was as if she knew everything about me, and showed me the one thing that I wanted most and said I could have it, if only I would turn aside. I mean, I do want the quest to succeed, so it can't be what I wanted __most__ …but, well… you know…." he had amended, stumbling over the oblique assurance as he blushed in his turn. Finally, he had fallen silent.

"You speak truly," Gimli had said then, taking up the conversation as he had stroked his beard, considering anew, perhaps, his own experience. "And though it seemed we stood naked before her, yet my choices in this matter would remain secret. Or so I perceived."

"It was but pretense – what choice could any of us have made that would not be known instantly to the others?" Boromir had challenged. "And what purpose lay in this… this testing? Have we not yet proved ourselves true?"

"In the matter of the Ring," Frodo had said, speaking at last, "there is no proof that is final, until It be unmade. How could there be? Else we would not suffer so under the weight of Sauron's malice. Gandalf said it once himself: he could trust no one, not even himself, in matters concerning the Ring. As for the Lady Galadriel's purpose, none can read it, but neither can any doubt it. You do wrong to speak ill of her, for what evil lies upon this land comes but with us, and does not lie with her."

Frodo had met Boromir's proud eyes, and for a moment they had seemed to strive against each other. But in the end the Heir of Denethor had looked away, and though there had remained tension in his posture, he had said no more. So relieved had Frodo been by this seeming withdrawal that he had needed a few moments to realize that he had won the contest of wills in a battle he had never thought to fight. He had felt a thrill of misgiving over the victory, doubting whether a quarrel might not break the fellowship, and wondering whether this was an omen of things to come.

Perhaps it was, for though they had passed eventually to other topics, an aura of palpable tension had hovered in the air between them, and would not dissipate. Eventually, their conversation had fallen silent, and the companions had bidden each other an uncertain good-night. Despite that, Frodo had fallen asleep almost instantly, and if he had dreamed he could not remember any of it.

__Perhaps that is just as well,_ he thought, _for waking life grows harder with each day, and I dread the nightmares!__ Since that fateful night in Moria, when he had eavesdropped on the secretive talk between Gandalf and Aragorn, his dreams had grown dark indeed, and fear was ever in his heart. He could not yet clearly perceive the danger that Gandalf had foreseen, but the dread had grown nevertheless. Almost his courage had failed him when the Balrog had appeared, and who knew whether it would now prove sufficient to carry him to the Mountain of Fire?

He wished he could talk to someone about such fears, but he could not bring himself to broach the subject with Sam. And he could not speak with Aragorn on this matter either: he had sensed a change in the other that had come hard upon Gandalf's fall, and he feared to learn what dark care preoccupied the Ranger.

__And where was he last night?__ Frodo wondered, frowning as he glanced over and saw Aragorn asleep upon his couch. Strider had disappeared early and the hobbit could not imagine what had kept him so very late. __I could ask him_ …._

But once more, doubts welled up, and in the end, he decided to let it lie. What, after all, did it matter if the Ranger preferred his solitude to the company of others in this time of grief?

__All I see is the Shadow,_ _ Frodo thought tiredly, closing his eyes again as his left hand rose almost habitually to the Ring upon its chain. __All I see is darkness spreading further and further until it swallows the sun. I know I must come at last to Orodruin, if I can, but how? I thought to leave all others behind, but now I am bereft ere ever I could fly myself for that dark realm!__

Frodo bowed his head. __Foolish was I to suppose I would be the first to break with this Fellowship! But… I needed to hope. Now, as Strider said, I must do without it for a time.__ His eyes strayed round once more to his companions, who were beginning to stir. __Yes, I shall carry on, I suppose, to whatever end awaits. I only wish it would come quickly!__

~0~

The day waxed. In time, the companions roused themselves, though to what purpose, no one seemed to know. After so long upon the road and on guard against its dangers, they seemed unsure what to do, and there was a bereft quality to such little tasks as they set themselves to that could not be traced simply to the loss of Gandalf.

So it was that Gimli , having attended to such small chores as his gear required, stood at the edge of their camp, and he frowned as he gazed up at the heights of Caras Galadon, squinting at the noon-day sun, wondering if he dared leave this clearing without Aragorn in tow as a witness to his good intentions. He doubted not that the Lady would laugh at his fears, and though he trusted __her__ implicitly now, he found that trust in general still came hard to a Dwarf adrift in the land of the Elves. With a snort for his own ridiculous anxiety, he turned and took a few hesitant steps beneath the boughs of the _mellyrn_ , then paused again, turning back towards the clearing.

__What is it that holds me back? Shall a Dwarf feel constrained by the faintest hint of Elvish displeasure?__ Gimli grimaced, feeling riven by uncertainty as he never had before. As he stood there, he saw Aragorn emerge at last from the tents and, after a moment's hesitation, make off quickly northwards. __So much for a witness!__

"Some of us seem born to wander whither they will," said a wry voice softly from behind him. Startled, Gimli turned and saw, to his surprise, Boromir. The Man stood with his arms folded across his chest and he leaned against a tree, gazing out after Aragorn, apparently. Boromir looked down at him, and his grey eyes held an odd gleam as he continued, "While the rest of us remain tethered in place, hmm? Do you not feel thus, Master Dwarf?"

"Tethered… yes, I suppose that that is an apt word," Gimli replied, and cocked a heavy brow at the other. "And you, Master Boromir? What has a Man to fear from Elves that he feels… tethered?"

"There are some things that Men were never meant to see," Boromir replied, seeming to repeat a maxim of sorts. "'Tis perilous to meet with the Firstborn, for such encounters change one. Some say that one loses a part of one's humanity in such a meeting."

"I had not heard such rumors," Gimli confessed, and shrugged. "For myself, I know not what to think of your humanity, Boromir; I know only that I am and shall always be a Dwarf, let the Elves do as they will! Perhaps Aragorn could better reassure you as to the truth or falsity of such a notion." It was meant as a friendly suggestion, but Boromir's eyes narrowed and the gleam grew stronger, so that Gimli began to feel a certain uneasiness.

"Ah, that one! I think not, for he is too much an Elf himself, though his blood run as red and mortal as any of ours – saving only Legolas's, of course. I wonder sometimes whether he has not been too long sundered from his own kind."

"You speak as if you have some grievance against Aragorn, my friend," the Dwarf replied carefully, scowling this time for he liked not the course of this conversation and wondered what lay behind it. He scrutinized the other's face carefully, but unless it were the flash of some peculiar emotion in those intense eyes, he could discern nothing of the other's thoughts.

__And perhaps I am not a fit judge in these matters__ _._ But even as he thought it, his heart misgave him, though he knew not why, precisely.

"'Tis hardly his fault, I suppose," Boromir said in response, speaking slowly, almost as if to himself now. "Fate is an unfaithful mistress, and cruel are her ways. Nay, 'tis not his fault. Nevertheless…." Boromir shook his head and brushed irritably at a long lock of jet black hair that fell into his face. "It matters not. Only I am not at ease in this wood, and shall be glad to see the land of my home again!"

"Aye." And although Gimli agreed wholeheartedly, he spoke with reluctance, some part of him unwilling to accept the change of subject, but equally unwilling to argue it with his companion. "Aye, you speak for me there. But, since we are here, I shall make the most of it – insofar as it is granted a Dwarf to do so in the midst of Elvish ways. Good day, Boromir."

The Dwarf bowed, after the manner of his people, and Boromir smiled absently and returned the salute, hands crossed upon his breast according to Gondor's customs. Then the Man strode quickly away, vanishing swiftly into the woods at the opposite end of the clearing.

Gimli meanwhile stood still as stone and pondered what meaning that odd conversation might have had. He did not even realize he was not alone until a sigh ruffled his hair, and he turned sharply, hand going swiftly to his ax in a reflexive motion. But then his eyes widened in astonishment as he gasped incredulously, "Legolas!?" The Elf''s mouth was a tight line of worry, and he seemed not to realize how very close to death (or at least to injury) he had come. "What do you here? And why came you behind me?"

"I came to see who might remain in the glade. And I came behind you because I heard your voices on the breeze, and you face the wind."

"And so an Elf of the Woods is drawn to speak to a Dwarf? Are you ill?" Gimli demanded, abandoning tact. Legolas's eyes flashed a bit at that, but then that fire faded, and was replaced by an emotion strange to the Dwarf.

"Nay, not ill, unless it be that grief is illness. And perhaps for Elves it is. Too many of us have died of that wasting disease!" Legolas sighed, and Gimli felt abashed for his outburst, which drew Gandalf so sharply and easily to mind. But before he could formulate an apology, the Elf continued, "Something eats at him."

"At Boromir?"

"Yes," Legolas looked down at him again, and his gaze was unusually frank and solemn, "You see it, too. How could we not, we who have so often stood at his sides?" Gimli raised a brow, surprised by the acknowledgment of their private war of wills. "Shall we not be honest with each other for once, Gimli, and set aside our quarrel for a time?"

"For the sake of the Company?"

"If you will," Legolas replied with an impatient shrug. "I care not what reason you give, but I like not the mood that has fallen upon us all."

And Gimli, gazing hard at his rival, asked suspiciously, "Is that the only reason?"

"Oh, very well!" Legolas gave an exasperated sigh, and his voice bespoke irritated embarrassment, a state altogether foreign to the Elf. _ _But then, so are these clumsy attempts to disguise his feelings,_ _ Gimli thought, realizing that the other truly was concerned about something. "In truth, I came hither because I heard __your__ voice, and I…I wished to ask you what you thought of this matter of Boromir."

"Why not ask Aragorn?" he demanded. "Surely a Man would better suit your need in this case."

"Aragorn was not present to hear our companion last night," the Elf countered, "and he, too, has troubles that he does not wish others to see, though I cannot guess what they might be. But I think that they are not of the same sort as Boromir's. Alas! An Elf has little understanding of Men at times, and I fear to misread him. I thought to ask you because…."

"Because Dwarves, too, are mortal?" Gimli asked when Legolas faltered. "That may well be, but I am no more a Man than I am a hobbit! Think you that I understand Frodo any better?" Legolas pursed his lips, and his brows drew together as he considered this, and Gimli nearly laughed aloud. The Elf seemed so utterly puzzled, as if it had not occurred to him that a Dwarf might labor under the same burden of incomprehension as he!

__Not all mortals are alike! That Lindir fellow back in Rivendell was more right than he knew, perhaps, when he said that mortals were not the study of Elves__ _,_ Gimli thought. Finally, however, he took pity upon the other's confusion, and said:

"You and I look into another world, Legolas, and it is foreign to us both. Nevertheless, we must do what we can to aid the Quest. Perhaps we may between us discern what lies at the heart of Boromir's temper." Elf and Dwarf stared at each other across the gulf of their differences, and for a while they seemed poised thus, unable to move toward each other. And yet, that very estrangement which separated them from each other also lay between them and most of the others of the Company; thus ironically, what kept them apart was also that which gave them ground to stand upon together.

"Perhaps," Legolas allowed finally, and he cocked his head slightly, and his posture relaxed ever so slightly. "Perhaps we may. And perhaps we may speak further upon this?"

"If we do, we must wait for the others to disperse, for I would not risk being overheard again," Gimli warned.

"Why not go our own way, then?"

"Ah…hmm." Gimli's eyes flicked towards the treetops involuntarily, as if seeking Elves hidden among them, or else monsters. Legolas noticed, and something suspiciously like a smile passed quickly over his face.

"The wardens would not dare to arrest you in my presence, if that is what worries you," the prince said, and there was a hint of true mirth in his voice. And even, Gimli thought suddenly, surprised by the insight, even a touch of endearment – as if the Elf were charmed by that uneasiness. For a long moment, the Dwarf gazed at his strange would-be companion, and it was as if he had at long last begun to see him.

"Very well, Master Legolas," he said at length, and there was now in his voice a certain bemused challenge. "We shall see how high the Elves of Lórien esteem their kinsman from afar. Lead on!" And for the first time since the Watcher had driven them into Khazad-dûm, the Dwarf felt the shadow upon him lift.


	5. Leaving Lothlórien

__In the twilight that had fallen upon Lórien, time ran its strange courses. The days slipped by swiftly, and the nights stalled, run aground upon a deeper Night and its growing clangors and silences. The Song was shifting – its Measures beat out the weeks in a haste that even Men might marvel at. Time was running out..._ _

Pippin gazed up at the waxing moon, which rode pale and high in the afternoon. __Soon we will leave this place_ ,_ he thought regretfully. The world outside remained a shadowy horror, but over the course of long, aimless days, he had felt his grief ease gently aside, drawing back from him enough that it no longer crippled him. And though the darkness remained deep beyond the golden woods, he, irrepressible as ever, faced it now with a sense of determined anticipation. But for the moment, he was more than content to remain absolutely still and let the world flow past him.

"I wonder if Mr. Bilbo is looking at that same moon," said a wistful voice at his side. Pippin glanced right and saw Sam standing there, gazing up intently.

"I shouldn't wonder if he were," Pippin replied. "Funny, isn't it? I haven't noticed the moon of late, yet it seems to me that I've seen it like this before. I wonder how long we've been here."

"Strider says time is different here, but what he means by that I couldn't say, unless it means just this: all the days run together, and somehow Moria seems very far away." But as remote as the vast mines and terrible, darksome splendor of Khazad-dûm were, the hobbits fell awkwardly silent. Gandalf's face flashed before Pippin's eyes, and he felt his heart speed in response. __When we set out, Gandalf shan't be with us, and there will be no waiting for him to arrive and save us. Now it is up to us!__ The time was now past when he would have shuddered at the very thought, or wept; but he felt a thrill of dread nonetheless. Beside him, Sam was blushing fiercely, whether from embarrassment for the slip or in an effort not to cry himself, Pippin knew not.

"Time does flow by here, like a river over rocks: heedlessly, I mean. And though I do want to stay, I have this feeling that it is time to move on at last."

"So do I, sir," Sam replied, nodding, his plain face set in a stalwart expression that caused Pippin to frown and blink, for he had not seen the other in such a mood before. "So do I, and Mr. Frodo does, too."

"Say Sam, how is old Frodo? He keeps much to himself these days," Pippin inquired.

Samwise glanced at him from the corners of his eyes, and when he spoke it was with great reluctance. "Yes, well… I suppose he has, sir. And… you being his friend… I don't like to speak where I'm not wanted, Mr. Pippin, but I don't like how he's so quiet all the time. Of all of us, he seems the only one who hasn't got past that blasted bridge, if you understand me."

"I do indeed. Not that we shall ever truly 'get past' I suppose," Pippin replied thoughtfully. "But you mean he hasn't moved away from it at all."

"Aye, that's it. He clings to it, sir, and won't let nothing, not even Lothlórien, pull him away. That's no way to start a long journey – I know that now! And it isn't right, I think. There's something more in this than… than Gandalf's fall." Sam managed with only a slight stumble to force the words out. "I think he must have – "

Of a sudden, he stopped, scowling, and spots of red appeared once more on his cheeks. "Go on," Pippin urged, unwilling to let the matter drop here. "Frodo must have what?"

"I don't know as I'm supposed to say anything." Sam tried lamely to avoid an answer, but Pippin only shook his head and laid his hands on the other's shoulders firmly.

"Sam lad, you must tell me! If something is amiss with Frodo, then we must try to help him. But how can I do that if I don't know what is wrong?"

"It's just… it concerns the lady," Sam coughed, and his eyes cut upward to the treetops, where lay the hall of Galadriel. Pippin pursed his lips in a low whistle.

"Well, if that is it, then you _must_ tell me – that can't keep! I mean, if the lady has said something to worry or help him, it can't lie silent. Well, can it, Sam?" the young Took pressed, more in earnest than he had perhaps ever been in his life.

"All right, all right! We, Mr. Frodo and me, we went with the lady Galadriel to her mirror. Just a basin filled with water, but you could see… visions… in it," Sam admitted. "I don't know if any are true, or if they're all only in my head, if you know what I mean. The lady said some don't come to pass, because the future is not something to be grasped from the present. But I think… I am nearly certain that Mr. Frodo saw something he didn't like. Something on top of everything else, for enough's happened to unsettle even Strider. But this touched something deeper, I think."

"And you don't know what he saw? He would not say?"

"No, sir, he wouldn't. Very queer it was: he and the lady started talking, and they both seemed to know what the other meant, but I couldn't make heads nor tails of it." Sam paused, shaking his head ruefully. "Something about rings and the Dark Lord, and the First Song of the Aye-noor," he said at last, pronouncing that last quite awkwardly.

"The Song of the what? What are these… these… creatures?"

"As I said, sir, I don't rightly know. I think, though, that Elbereth is one, or perhaps close to one. Might be a question for Legolas or Strider, if I thought I could explain why I was asking! But Mr. Frodo seemed dreadfully pale of a sudden, and Lady Galadriel, too. As if they had both thought of the same thing, and didn't like it at all."

"And you haven't any idea what it might be," Pippin sighed, discouraged.

"No sir," Sam replied softly, bowing his head. "Not for the likes of me is such talk. Me, now, I've enough to worry over with just my Gaffer and wanting to go home to my own hole in Bagshot Row – I miss him, sir! Him and… and Rose, too, especially!" That last came out in a punctuated rush, as if torn from Sam by his own conscience, and he seemed close to tears. Pippin swallowed hard, and put his arms about the other's shoulders and gave him a gentle shake.

"There now! Brave lad!" Pippin mumbled by way of clumsy consolation. __Bagshot Row, and the Cotton's farm. Rosie Cotton….__ It was hard to comfort someone when one suffered from the same affliction, but Peregrin Took gave as easily as he laughed. Besides, he felt guilty, knowing that his own feelings for Rose Cotton were hardly disinterested, and that Sam had not the least suspicion. Years ago he had fallen under the spell of Farmer Cotton's lovely daughter, but tween-aged shyness had got the better of him.

__Not that it would have mattered if I'd said a word, for she'd eyes only for Sam. And I wouldn't think of trying to convince her to look my way, when Sam loves her so__ _,_ he thought. Still, it was hard to wish Sam well of her, in this time and place, when he knew that to do so meant he would never achieve his heart's desire.

"And that's not all, sir," Sam whispered, hoarse with the effort to control his tears. "Bad enough, missing home and Rose and the Gaffer, but there's worse things. I couldn't tell this to Mr. Frodo, it would've been cruel. But I can't keep it to myself either. I saw something in that Mirror. It was almost at the end of the visions when suddenly everything got very dark. I was about to pull back, when the water… it wavered and it seemed as though there were shapes in it. Nazgûl, I thought to myself. And they were, sir! Black Riders pressed so close in a ring about us that I couldn't see even the sky – but then I couldn't even look that far up, I think!" Sam paused, and his voice grew softer, yet more shrill as it tightened further. "Me and Mr. Frodo were trapped somewhere. And I couldn't let those filthy creatures have him – him with a Ring on and… and I knew it wasn't going to be him much longer. So I… I…"

"What did you do, Sam?" Pippin coaxed, easing the other down to sit upon the turf. "I promise you, I'll not say a word to anyone!"

"They were going to take him to the Tower," the other said, tone dull and flat now, lacking all inflection. It was as if Sam spoke in a foreign tongue, repeating the words verbatim as he received them, without understanding enough to give them life. "They would have taken him, and to die with the Ring on his hand – no. No that was too much. I had to save him, sir, you understand. I had to, and there was only one way out. Through Sting…."

"Sting? I don't underst – " Pippin stopped abruptly, and the last syllable hissed through his teeth as enlightenment struck painfully. "Sam, no!" he murmured softly, shaking his head in denial. "No, no! It was only a vision. You said yourself that the Lady Galadriel said they don't all come true. Maybe even none of them, if we are all careful."

"I don't know, Mr. Pippin." Sam buried his face in his hands and scrubbed at his eyes, leaving white runnels as he let his hands slide clenched over his cheeks. "I just don't know. But if that's even a possibility… I couldn't do that, any more than I could fly!"

"Well then, doubtless it will never happen unless you sprout wings!" Pippin said, falsely bright in an attempt to push the darkness away. "Come now, my dear fellow, let's not think on such things any further. All right? Think instead how glad Rose will be to have you home again."

"You're right, sir," Sam sighed, heaving to his feet. "But I do wish I had never even dreamt that!"

__So do I, Sam__ _,_ Pippin thought, as he wordlessly fell in at his friend's side. __So do I!__

* * *

Meanwhile, high above the floor of the valley, Legolas perched easily upon a slender branch and looked out at the golden roof of the forest. A butterfly, with wings no less brilliant than the day itself, fluttered past, tracing its erratic path, and the Elf watched it go. __Thus do we journey__ _,_ he mused. __The destination is clear before us, but our path is crooked and twisting out of necessity!__ But for the moment, even thought of the long road, which they must soon face again without the shield of Lórien's gilded girdle, could not dampen his spirits. The day was fair, and his own winding explorations of the forest left little room for discontent….

"Elves are daft indeed if they think any wingless creature was meant to see the earth from such heights!" The growled complaint issued from behind and below him, but though Legolas sighed dramatically, his lips quirked in a smile as he glanced over his shoulder at Gimli, Glóin's son.

The Dwarf was wedged firmly between two stout branches, unwilling to risk the freer (and more dangerous) 'paths.' His face was set in a formidable glower, but Legolas knew well that it was assumed. In truth, he suspected the other of enjoying the outing, though Gimli might never admit to such heresy. __Strange how transparent he is, now that I turn my eye to him! How did I overlook that before?__ The elven prince turned fully and began to make his graceful way back down to where his friend clung like an abandoned kitten.

"Trees have not wings, yet they do see the world from above," he pointed out, raising a pale brow.

"Trees, he says!" Gimli replied, sounding exasperated, but there was a glint of real humor in his voice. "May we now descend so that I need not fear for either of our necks should our conversation distract us?"

"This way then, if you be not craven!" Legolas replied, and began to scramble down swiftly. Gimli uttered something in his own tongue, which sounded rather like a curse, but he followed his friend and tormentor, if more slowly. When at last, Legolas set foot on the ground, the Dwarf was still upon the rope ladder that dangled from the lowest branch.

"You will be the death of me yet," Gimli declared when at last he stood before him, scowling up at Legolas, and the Elf laughed.

"I doubt it not! But, we are now upon the ground, and you were quite right: we have much still to discuss."

"Indeed! I thought you wished to keep an eye upon Boromir today," Gimli replied, abandoning in an instant their banter for more serious matters.

"And I did," Legolas responded, sobering. "Even now, he is not far: perhaps a mile from here."

"And are your ears, perchance, as sharp as your eyes?" Gimli asked, raising dark brows.

"Even were they, it would have mattered little. He spoke to no one, and has wandered alone the entire day," Legolas sighed, and his face was troubled on Boromir's behalf.

"And when he is with us, he says little." Gimli frowned, stroking his beard. "I like it not. I think that Boromir is not accustomed to loneliness, and I fear what that might mean."

"You o'erpass me in this," Legolas admitted. "Speak more plainly!"

"I mean that Boromir is not one to keep much to himself, nor to suffer dispute easily or in silence. He is a warrior, after all." The Dwarf shrugged. "It is in him to fight, yet he has said no contrary word, nor spoken without prompting, since the argument that first night. And yet is it not clear that he feels alone? That he feels 'tethered' as he said?"

The Elf was silent for a time, considering the other's conclusions. "You may be right. But as with all our days of watching, this brings us no closer to the heart of the matter."

"True, but it brings us back to the beginning: to the argument," Gimli replied, and then frowned again. "I wish Aragorn had heard it, for perhaps he might have seen or heard something that we did not." He paused, then: "It has been many weeks – Boromir is no more helped by that time than are we. Should we not speak to Aragorn on this matter, Legolas?"

But the Elf shook his head. "Nay, not yet! I think, in the days to come, he will recognize himself the change in Boromir, if he has not already. The time is not yet ripe, I deem."

Gimli sighed. "And yet should we wait, we may miss the harvest, or find naught but a husk on the branch," he pointed out.

"I know the risk," Legolas replied. "But still, I would wait, and while we have this brief time of safety, I would rather Aragorn see to his own needs than burden him with another responsibility."

This drew a deeper frown from Gimli, and he asked, surprised: "What needs are those?"

"I know not precisely," Legolas replied. "But one hears things."

"What things?"

"Naught that I should speak of here," the Elf demurred, ignoring his companion's exasperated snort. For though he would not deny a friend joy, still, the rumor that had come to his ears – that their friend sometimes was absent from their company to be with his betrothed – troubled him, for it was no light matter. Not when that bond went between Elf and Man: given the gravity of such a choice, among Elves, it was nothing to speak of, unless at great need. So far as Legolas could see, there was no great need. "For," said he, and not only to himself, "he will soon have to take up all the Company's troubles as well as his own, and if he has found some peace of his own, then I would not trouble it yet. Come my friend, we came to speak of Boromir, not of Aragorn. And to say farewell to good Lórien, fairest of all forests!"

So saying, Legolas led the way through the woods, and Gimli shook his head in a resigned, if amused, fashion, surrendering to deadly-serious elven whim, and followed along. Legolas smiled inwardly. And:

__I_ _t is not good for a Man to be alone as Boromir is. You are right in that, my friend,__ he thought. __Nor for a Dwarf, nor even for an Elf. At least I am no longer alone on this long path!__

* * *

Had Legolas known the truth of rumor, he might have been less silent – at least to Aragorn. He did not, however – no one did, unless mayhap the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien, though not from any word of either their granddaughter or their newly-gained grandson. But if they knew, they kept as silent as the lovers themselves as the days fell away into weeks and the weeks themselves faded into the past, 'til the day of departure loomed over all the Company. Then especially did they seek each other out, between preparation and counsel, though they did not between them speak of the journey that awaited. Rather, of other times, and journeys, and memories of other places did they speak – of all the long years spent apart, and which had not been shared, and which, it seemed, they were compelled to share now, lest there be no time later.

"What think you, love?" Aragorn asked one evening. Before him stood Arwen, silhouetted against the open window, and the starlight glittered pale on her dark hair. Long had they sat in this little chamber among the high boughs of Caras Galadon, talking quietly together while the sun sank into the west. Eventually, they had fallen silent, and Arwen, restless, had risen to go and stand so as to catch the evening breezes, unquiet writ upon her fair face.

"That if you must leave soon, then I shall miss you, and even Lórien shall hold little joy for me," she said. Aragorn rose and silently stalked over to stand behind her. He drew her into his arms, holding her gently, and together they gazed out at the velvet night. The candle on the stand had long since extinguished itself, but neither had moved to rekindle it. Darkness was more comfortable of late, more concealing, protective – forgiving – than was pitiless daylight. For it spared them more than the eyes of others – it spared them each other, and at times, they needed that.

For with darkness came desire – hard to deny, having once submitted to it; harder still when one of them had no desire to deny it. And it was not that Aragorn felt untempted, nor that his regrets were so great – he had tried awhile, but in the end, he could _not_ regret that evening in the woods. Which made it hard, when Arwen came to him, to refuse. Indeed, he hadn't at first, and even now, no one could say he did not tempt himself, but...

But though he might not regret, this furtive clutching in the shadows was not what he desired, for there was the matter of her father and brothers, and her grandparents, which honor could not simply cast aside. A late consideration, some might say, so late as to be senseless now, for the change was wrought. Yet it sat not well with him, either to continue in the darkness, to lie with her and lie to all others at the same time, or stand upon poor-come-by right and insist upon it to family who could but grieve to lose Arwen, and especially now. Ill wrought, their union, however innocently, he thought, and he would be leaving in any case soon. Better, then, for there to be nothing to insist upon – though he knew that that, too, grieved her, no less than it did him.

"Say not so," he implored therefore.

"You would have me lie?" she asked.

He sighed. "Have we not already?"

"We could do otherwise," she challenged, not for the first time, and turned in his arms to face him. Her eyes gleamed dimly in the night, and he felt her hands rest warmly upon him.

"You know," he told her, "that I cannot say 'yes.' Not as we are. Not as all of this – " he gestured to the world without, knowing well she could see even if he could not " – stands."

To that, she sighed, but said: "I know that you cannot."

He did not miss the slight stress on 'you.' Aragorn shut his eyes a moment, then reopened them, and lifted a hand to cup her face in it. He felt her lean all too gladly into his touch, and he could not but feel ashamed.

"And I know," he said then softly, "that I have brought you little enough joy. Nay, hear me!" he insisted, when she began to protest. "I do not apologize for that night, but can you say that I have done well by you – either then or now or any time since? Have I been what you wished?"

" _You_ are what I wish," she answered, and he grimaced.

"But not _as_ you wish – or we should not stand here now and speak thus," he replied. To that, she said nothing, and he felt a crooked smile tug at his mouth for the painful irony, as he told her: "I never looked to wrong you, and all the weeks since I came here, have I done aught else? 'Tis not that I hold you lower than others, but I know not how to do right by all."

Arwen bowed her head then. "Your time here grows short, my love," she warned, sad reminder.

"Too short," he murmured unhappy agreement into her hair. "There is not time enough for amends – not to you, though I owe them."

"Aye, you do," said she simply, lifting her eyes once more to his, and he felt her fingers brush along his brow, smoothing aside a lock of hair, tucking it behind his ear. Fingertips drew thence down and came to rest just over his pulse. "Be glad, then, of patience!" For a moment, neither moved nor spoke, but when her lips met his but a moment later, it was like rain come to earth – easy, swift, inevitable.

So much so, that it wasn't 'til the couch was at his back and she above him that he remembered himself, and sought to put her off. "Arwen," he protested, but was silenced once more by her mouth upon his, insistent as her hands... But though insistent, she was not relentless, so that when she withdrew, he managed hoarsely: "This you call patience?"

"This I call justice," she answered, and he shivered slightly at her tone – hard and laughing, grieved and loving all at once. "One night," she told him, then. "It does not make amends – that patience must bear, and shall. But you will give me one night, and suffer this one wrong to honor – yours and my father's and my family's and mine, as well – that I may miss you better, since you hold your absence at so little cost."

Unaccustomed as he was to calculate on his back, still, that seemed to weigh nearly evenly, though perhaps he might not have said so elsewhere. "So be it," he breathed, and acquiesced, and for a time afterward, there was between them nothing of either honor or fear.

The night passed slowly. The stars traced out their path, though they heeded them not. But when at last the night began to lift, and the dark of their room gave way to a deep blue dim, then Arwen lifted her head from his chest, and faintly could he see her face – dear and troubled, though she smiled a little when he drew his thumb down the line of her throat to rest his hand at length between her breasts.

"When must you depart?" she asked him then.

"A week – ten days at most," he answered, ere adding softly: "Better had we gone already."

Upon hearing which, Arwen said naught, but she withdrew from him then, rising to go once more to that window. He, after a moment, sat up and reached for his clothes. And he was quick about the washstand, for though Lórien knew no touch of frost, still, the air was cool.

Arwen had not moved from her contemplation, and he gazed at her a long moment, eyes wandering over her pale outline, and the shadows that lay upon her, and then with a sigh, he pulled his shirt over his head, and then his tunic, and buckled his belt over all. Then he stooped, found her cloak, and, joining her there by the window, laid it about her shoulders. She raised a hand to clutch the cloth, and his hand, too, and for a moment, they stood there unmoving, staring out at the waning night.

"Since Midsummer of that year I have watched all your ways: east and west, I have looked for you," she said softly at length. "But I cannot see the road now – all to the east lies hidden from my sight." And she turned then to him and laid her hand to his cheek. "Remember me," she said urgently; "When the road grows hard – remember me!"

He did not answer her with words. Long that kiss lasted, 'til passion threatened once more to claim them both, and then he drew back, assurance sealed. The light had grown greyer, and he bowed his head before it a moment, then looked her squarely in the eye. "I should leave."

"Yes," she murmured, and stood tall before him – as a queen uncrowned. "Yes, you should. Be well, beloved, this day and all the others!"

" _Vanimeldë,_ " he answered, and made her a bow. Then drawing his own cloak about his shoulders, he turned away and left her there, and passed in silence into the stillness of the world without.

__And as Aragorn left Arwen, the dissonance at the edge of the Void reached the peak of its creative frenzy, fracturing the Song, and falling into deadly Silence. The Rift opened wider as the Fellowship prepared to depart upon its appointed path…._ _


	6. Adrift

Anduin the Great glittered bright all about, and Pippin stared out at the land passing swiftly away. After the long days and weeks spent climbing, crawling, scrambling, and walking from Imladris to Lórien, Pippin had well nigh forgotten that any other means of travel existed, and he had never imagined that boats could speed the journey so. As if in response to his thoughts, the water at the prow leapt higher as the skiff surged forward, and Pippin, caught unawares, nearly had the paddle wrenched from his hands.  
  
 _Boromir again,_ he thought. Glancing back over his shoulder, Pippin caught Merry's eyes, and the two hobbits shared a brief, puzzled look. Then Merry shrugged minutely, adjusting his own strokes so as not to hinder Boromir's, and Pippin followed suit, wondering at the Man's behavior. Since their departure from Lothlórien four days ago, Boromir had been agitated: it showed in his silence, in the way he watched Aragorn and especially Frodo, and in his fidgeting, which Pippin had never remarked in him before.  
  
Whatever it was that gnawed at him, he gave it no voice but it was palpable, akin to the dread that shrouded Frodo. _I think it must have begun after Gandalf fell,_ Pippin thought, recalling Boromir's subdued hostility towards Aragorn as they had made their weary way towards Lothlórien. But though he sifted his memories through a fine-meshed sieve, he could recall no incident that might have provoked such a reaction in the other. Nor could he imagine why that brooding discontent should linger so long, growing stronger as the days passed.  
  
 _I should think he would be glad_ , Pippin reflected. _Gondor is not so very far, or so I gather, and one has only to listen to him to know that Boromir misses his home. As we journeyed south, whenever we spoke in the mornings, just ere we retired, he always had some tale of Minas Tirith or his brother to add to Aragorn's stories of far countries. Just as Legolas always had a song for us! Yet the closer we come to Gondor, the more anxious he becomes. Why should that be?_  
  
This latest habit – whereby Boromir would suddenly send their boat surging forward, 'til the prow seemed likely to grate against the boat ahead of them – was as unnerving as it was inexplicable to the hobbit's mind. And there was something in the way that Boromir stared at Frodo that bred fear in Pippin's heart, though he knew not why.  
  
"Tell us of Gondor, Boromir!" he said suddenly, hoping to divert the Man from whatever troubled him. Startled, Boromir shook his head slightly, as if coming out of a daydream, and he glanced sharply at Pippin. Yet his tone bore an edge of irritation and his gaze drifted ahead, even as he asked:  
  
"What would you know?"  
  
"Whatever you care to tell us. If we come there, then it shall be useful, but if not, at least I shall know somewhat of it!" Pippin replied, attempting diplomacy.  
  
"This is not the time or the place for travelers' tales," the other rebuked. "Have you some specific question?"  
  
"Er, well," Pippin stammered, sensing his ploy fail. Still, he sought a topic, though it was hard, especially put on the spot so, for his knowledge was quite limited. "What would we do, Merry and I, if we came there? As hobbits, you understand."  
  
At that, Boromir gave a curt and unexpected bark of laughter and replied sardonically, "What indeed? Minas Tirith is an armed camp, Peregrin Took, and if you came there, you would fight when the enemy at last unleashed war." He paused, and then softly, as if speaking to himself, he added, "As will we all!"  
  
Pippin, sitting before him, tried not to cringe noticeably at the other's response, both its tone and its substance. _This is not like him,_ he thought. _It is that strange worry that preoccupies him. What_ can _it be?_ But even Tookish curiosity could be cowed, and though he neither wished to think ill of Boromir nor to leave him prey to whatever troubled him, the young hobbit sat quietly, and made no further overtures while the day lasted.  
  


* * *

  
Unhappily for Pippin, Boromir did not notice his silence, and so did not seek a reason for it. Had he noted it, and been moved to seek its reason, he might have had cause to wonder at his own temper of late. But of late, he had been much alone, and as he grew used to this new distance, it seemed that others, even when present, did not touch him so close with their concerns – and so he did not heed them as he might have once, for he did not notice, and as the world without grew dimmer, his own concerns swelled to fill the void... and cover it over.  
  
Perhaps it would always have been so. Gondor was no small concern, and especially to a son of the Steward. He had thought once, in Imladris, that he could bear it if the Company and he parted ways at Gondor's borders. Elrond's counsel was not lightly to be turned aside, after all. But the counsel of the Wise had turned out to be harder to bear than he had imagined, and so he had come to think that surely, if there were merit to his fears, he could persuade the Company – part of it at least, certainly Aragorn, to pass through Minas Tirith, and perhaps some of them would stay.  
  
And then had come Moria. Gandalf had fallen, and who then would lead Frodo onward? Who with a hope of leading him well, of reaching the mountain? No hobbit, surely, but of those remaining, could he trust Elf or Dwarf not to choose their own people over a journey almost certainly doomed? Aragorn at least was less bound to the North, and if that did not make him Gondor's yet, Boromir could reluctantly admit that he was most likely to serve Gondor's needs. _If_ he would take the duty! It was not clear to Boromir that he would, for Frodo himself had seemed to him most uncertain as to whom he would have accompany him – if any! Surely, though, that was true madness, to rest their hopes on the over-kindliness of hobbits, who knew nothing of war-measure!  
  
The matter had preoccupied him all through their drifting stay in Lórien, 'til he had not been able to bear it any longer. He had argued then with Aragorn about it the day their departure had been set, and had found no satisfaction in the other's response, not least because it put his own course in doubt.  
  
"The decision is Frodo's," Aragorn had insisted.  
  
"That decision decides your course, as well," Boromir had retorted. "Or do your own concerns have so little worth in this matter?"  
  
"My concern is for this quest."  
  
"And you believe it can succeed if you leave it to a hobbit's judgment?" he had demanded.  
  
A shadow had crossed the other's face then. "I do not know," Aragorn had said, levelly, "what will bring success to this endeavor. But I know that even Gandalf feared the power of the One, and what it might breed even in him. Where a wizard fears, a Man should not be overbold. Have I the strength to withstand what even Gandalf thought would be his sorest trial?" The other had looked away then, and his voice had grown distant. "The days grow dark, Boromir; all my choices may run ill – I fear they do already. In this, therefore, I will trust another to judge better than I my worth on the long way to Mordor."  
  
Thus the matter had stood between him and Aragorn, for no argument he had made had moved the other. And it gnawed at Boromir, who had turned his eye to Frodo, in whom Aragorn put such faith. And as the days lengthened, and he watched Frodo's gaze rest ever more upon his companions, as if weighing them for the road, he felt the fear begin to twist in him. For it seemed to him that that assessing gaze grew ever darker with pity, with reluctance – to risk another, to take any on that path.  
  
Frodo would go alone. The thought had grown in him, waxed ever more sure, and with it, his own despair. _For I may not abandon Minas Tirith to go with this Company if it chooses the dark path,_ he thought. _But by all that I hold dear, shall I meekly depart, knowing whither the Bearer is bound if Frodo will take no one? 'Tis madness!_  
  
It would be madness, if it happened. And since no man was obliged to honor madness, the consideration inevitably arose: _Frodo has not the will for this, nor the knowledge. Yet I am to risk Gondor upon his judgment, and his strength? Mayhap were Aragorn the Ringbearer, I would have more faith in his ability to reach Orodruin alive and free, but Frodo? Let it be Legolas, or even Gimli ere we send a hobbit into that wasteland!_  
  
Thus his thoughts ran, and beneath the cold calculation of reason, beneath even justified fear and anger, there ran resentment. Resentment that welled up from a depth deeper than the abyss, and he knew not whence it came. Something stirred in him beneath even that – a something worse, he knew not what. Or rather, he refused to know what it was that surged ever against the draconian constraints he imposed upon it, and manifested in the constant question:  
  
 _Why must it be thus? If this journey be ordained, as so many say, then spare me these thoughts!_ And unbidden there rose again the memory of that first night beneath Caras Galadhon, and words born of his own anguished, half-acknowledged suspicions: _Have we not yet proved ourselves true?_ The argument with Aragorn had but added to its urgency... and despite the growing gap between himself and others, had undermined what surety had remained him.  
  
And where did that leave him? For Boromir, warrior born and heir to the last bastion of the Dúnedain upon Middle-earth, such uncertainty was utterly foreign and he felt himself drowning. All of his life had been devoted to the protection of Gondor and to the men who served her, and that anyone should question his loyalty was an affront to his pride. Yet Galadriel's bright eyes had pierced him, and Frodo's answer to him that night had touched him close, between them tearing the veil aside and forcing him to see a part of himself that he had shunned.  
  
Now, that furtive darkness, down there beneath even anger, nestled at his core whimpered and whispered incessantly, on the one hand inflaming his wrath and resentment, and on the other miring him in a profound mistrust that was the more vehement for having been exposed. Thus whenever he thought of the likely direction of the Quest, of a hobbit alone in the ash slags of Mordor, that insistent voice demanded, _Why not Boromir? Why should I not have a share of this burden? Let others say as they please, must I not trust my own judgment? For if I cannot trust myself, then shall I blindly trust others?  
  
Aye, there is the hook upon which all my doubts catch,_ Boromir thought with a grim smile that was hidden by the darkness. _For if I may not trust others, I must trust myself, for what else have I? Let Aragorn trust where he will, I may not – for I am no wizard, nor a wizard's pupil!_  
  
At that moment, a voice drifted back to him, "Turn to the shores!" And he gritted his teeth at the sound of it, for it was Frodo's.  
  
 _Do I hate him?_ he wondered then. _Surely not! But how can I trust the fate of Minas Tirith to him?_ Galadriel's face flashed before his eyes, seeming to stab him with her regard once more, and from his depths, he protested: _Who is she to hang Gondor's survival from so weak a thread? Or is there indeed anything at all that holds us up? And who is she to judge my loyalty?_  
  
Hard upon such angry recriminations, though, came a brooding fear that was more fundamental than any anger. For in spite of his surly temper, he had seen in Galadriel's eyes the terrible grief that racked her. However he might resent her judgments, he recognized that unlike hobbits, one such as she was not given to tears for less cause than the peril of the world. _And if she mourns it already, then are we doomed to fail?_ he wondered. _There is a malicious pall upon the world of late, and if this is but the beginning…  
  
Why not try, then?_ asked the niggling voice that all of Elrond's words had not wholly quieted. Thought's native habit, borne upon that something lying low within him pressed like a needle: _Why not take the risk and wound the Dark Lord as heavily as we might? It needs only the Ring, and one willing…._  
  
The keel grated on the riparian sands just then, halting his feverish thoughts, and the hobbits fairly leapt from the boat, grateful to stretch their legs.  
  
 _Or else relieved to escape from me!_ Boromir thought, seeing the anxious, confused, unhappy look that Pippin turned briefly upon him. Perhaps because it was Pippin, who had never, so far as he could tell, meant to harm ought that wasn't supper, that look pierced through his thoughts and for a moment the world seemed to open. And he felt then chagrin for his curt and unfriendly words to Pippin that afternoon. He had never been a very patient man, but neither was he cruel, and in truth he knew not what compelled him speak so to a comrade. Unless it were weariness of a strange and unnatural sort–weariness born of the conflict within himself that he strove to suppress.  
  
 _I feel stretched thin as a wire,_ Boromir thought as, with a soft sigh, he waded through the shallows, dragging the prow of the boat higher up onto the shore. _My thoughts fly every direction today,_ he reprimanded himself then, striving for a wry resignation at the end of the day. For though he feared the trend of his own speculations, he feared even more that others should discover them. Even now, he shot a look sideways at Aragorn, who was performing the same task as he, while Frodo and Sam saw to their baggage. The Ranger glanced up, seeming to feel Boromir's eyes upon him, and the Man of Gondor looked away swiftly.  
  
 _I should speak to him,_ he thought, gritting his teeth. But he could not. Not for fear of the contest – Boromir had fought too many battles to flinch from one, however bitter, yet Aragorn was worse than any enemy. For if there were one thing about which he had no doubt, it was that Aragorn would understand him better than any of the others. Ever since he had quarreled with him in Lórien, and Aragorn, with the shadow in his eyes, had looked away, some part of him had recognized the truth – _He knows what drives me. _He knew, for it drove Aragorn also, and Aragorn, Boromir recognized on some level, knew the name of this thing, this inward foe.  
  
And if Boromir spoke to him, the other might reveal it – and Boromir could not bear to hear it, not least because he did not know which would be worse: that Aragorn should reveal him to himself in contempt... or in pity. Thus since Lórien, he had made every effort to turn the other's regard aside, for if his feelings toward Isildur's Heir had always been ambivalent, of late they had tilted more towards a jealous fear… and shame.  
  
 _Why must it be thus?_ some part of him demanded. A sudden loathing seized Boromir then: of the quest, of Aragorn, of war, of peace, of indecision… and of himself. _I hate this silence most of all!___ And yet it endured.  
  


* * *

The first watch of the night drew slowly towards it end. Frodo sat quietly on a comfortable tussock of grass and felt the slow, night-time pulse of the earth surge through him, urging slumber and dreaming forgetfulness. But Frodo ignored the temptation, gazing out across the river to the mist-shrouded eastern bank.

_There lies my way,_ the hobbit thought. _Soon… soon I must leave this Company. Or let them leave me._

It had been in his mind of late that he could ask the others to simply go, to depart and leave him to his fate, to the task that called him. _I might even be able to force them to do it,_ he thought.

For since that argument with Boromir, he had become more aware of the Ring as it hung upon its chain, secure in its dreadful power. It had silenced one opponent already, but if he dared to draw upon it, Frodo knew that his friends would have no choice but to obey his request. _And is that not a terrible thought? Valar help me, this is what Gandalf – may he rest in peace! – warned me against from the beginning!_

Sighing, he bowed his head, slouching beneath the weight of the burden and the terrible suspicions he now harbored. Galadriel's evident distress in Lórien as she had spoken of the Song had been as telling a sign as the conversation he had overheard in Moria. More so, even, for with Gandalf's death, Frodo found himself willing to believe the worst… if only someone else would confirm it for him!

Galadriel would not, and he understood why, for they were Ringbearers both, their thoughts having a terrible power to heal or destroy. For himself, he marked that the others had by and large gained some measure of peace while in Lórien, and he did not begrudge them that. So he had held his tongue – or bitten it, rather – out of pity and friendship. But oh, how he wished just one of them would speak of his own fears, and give shape to the dread that Frodo suffered! Then perhaps he might be able to ask what he longed to ask!

The sky darkened as a cloud drifted slowly before the moon, and Frodo stared up at the dimmed stars. Anduin murmured softly before him, but otherwise the night was silent… unnaturally so. Not a cricket sang, nor did bats or owls call out their hunting cries. His mouth gone suddenly dry, Frodo swallowed hard and stood, drawing his sword. In that instant, he heard movement behind him and turned to see Aragorn stirring restlessly.

_Does he dream?_ the hobbit wondered, watching as the Ranger turned away, seeming to recoil from something, and then suddenly pushed himself up on one elbow, breathing quickly. The Ranger looked then toward him; their eyes met in the gloom, and after a moment, Aragorn rose, drawing his cloak about him against the damp chill, and came to kneel by Frodo's side.

"What is it?" he asked in a low voice.

"I know not," replied Frodo. "It seemed to me suddenly too quiet, as if something were creeping nearer." Both of them glanced down at Sting, whose edges glinted. But it was only the faint light of the stars that made it glitter, not the presence of their enemies. Aragorn closed his eyes, as if to shut out all distraction as he took in the sounds of the night.

"I hear nothing," he said at length, though he did not seem reassured by this, and Frodo felt his jaw clench, as the other continued: "Not even those creatures whose domain is the night sound. The land lies silent as if strangled."

"This is no wholesome quiet," Frodo murmured. Then: "Orcs?"

"Perhaps, but I doubt it," Aragorn answered, and the moon glinted in his eyes as he reopened them, and cast his gaze watchfully about. "Not all evil comes of orcs," he added quietly.

"We began this journey under the shadow," Frodo said quietly, "and now the darkness has extended to other senses as well. And it will go on… and on unchecked." The hobbit paused, fixing Aragorn under his gaze when the Ranger did not protest. And since there were no others to hear, he asked then the grim question that had haunted him since Moria: "You knew this, did you not? You and Gandalf both?"

Aragorn made no move, but his surprise – and his dismay – betrayed itself in silence, and Frodo perceived then the other wavering between speech and silence. Frodo shook his head.

"Speak, Aragorn!" he commanded. "For I think that nothing you say will be new to me." And he laid an urgent hand on Aragorn's shoulder. The Ranger sighed softly.

"Gandalf, I think, knew from the start that the Darkness would overtake us," he murmured. "I suspected his silence, but only upon the bridge of Khazad-dûm did I learn the full truth."

It hurt, that confession – and yet Frodo was glad to have it. _After so long alone with my fears, that one other shares them – I never thought it could bring such relief!_

But relief was not joy, and so Frodo replied sadly, "I thought as much."

"Knowing now this secret of the Wise, what do you intend to do?" Aragorn asked him then.

"I shall continue, of course," he said heavily. "What choice have I? What choice have any of us when the field is set against us? Did not Gandalf say it himself? That in the end, it matters not what fate decrees, but only what we choose, and the manner of our choosing?"

"So you heard us that night." Aragorn's eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. "And you never said aught!" He paused, and for a brief moment seemed to debate with himself ere he said slowly, "You say you shall continue. But how? If you will walk into Mordor, will you go with another, or alone?"

"What do you advise?" Frodo asked, curious.

"Do not ask me that, I beg!" There was a note of sharp entreaty in the other's voice that the hobbit had not heard before.

"Then do not advise, only say what it is in your heart, my friend. Should I take some and go to Mordor? Should I go alone?"

Still, the Ranger did not speak for awhile, and when he did respond at last, it was with manifest reluctance. "Neither," he answered.

Frodo blinked, surprised. "Neither?"

"As your friend, I would not have you dare that path at all, but turn west to Minas Tirith, for I would not have you endure the ruin that is Mordor. I have seen it, Frodo," Aragorn explained, and Frodo felt a chill go through him at the note of dread that crept then into the Ranger's voice. "If there is no hope, then there is no purpose in daring that deadly land."

"You advise me to turn aside?"  
   
"Nay," came the swift reply. "For I know that there are worse things than pain, however unmerited or unprofitable; and I know that were it my own honor, and my own task, I could not refuse the way, nor treat with one who would so advise me. But you had asked me to say what was in my heart, to speak as a friend, not as your advisor." A pause, then: "Have I said enough for you?"

"Enough, and more than that," Frodo said heavily. "Your words, alas, are but the echo of my own reasonings, and yet…." Frodo sighed, unable to continue.

His glance strayed over the still forms of his companions, as Boromir stirred in his sleep. A moment he seemed on the verge of waking, but then, abruptly, he quieted again, sinking deeper into his dreams.

"What of them, Aragorn?" Frodo asked quietly, changing the subject. "Boromir at least will see his home again, whatever I decide. But truly – what of the others?"  
   
"I know not," Aragorn replied, and Frodo thought he could hear the frown in the other's voice at mention of Boromir's name. But perhaps it was only imagination, for Aragorn continued on then: "It may be that we shall go severally to our ends, whatever they may be. But insofar as it is granted me, I would hold all together, for friendship may be our last defense." Another pause, then: "If you wish, I will take the rest of this watch, Frodo," he offered. "Sleep is now far from me, but you have not yet had a rest." After a moment, Frodo nodded his acceptance.

 

"Thank you," he said, and felt he should say more. But he could not find the words. Aragorn, however, laid a hand on his shoulder and Frodo sensed that the other understood. That was something, at least, and it eased him a little as Frodo lay down beside Merry and shut his eyes.

 

* * *

 

And Aragorn, watching as Frodo lay down amid the others, sighed inwardly, grieved on Frodo's behalf… on all of their behalves, truly.

 

_So the trial of our wills begins in earnest,_ he thought. Bitter the thought of Frodo's labors in light of deadly secrets, and more bitter still that Frodo should share in them. _I would have spared him that, at least!_ he thought, and regretted now that conversation in the dark of Moria. _Had I known he would overhear..._

Perhaps, though, the knowledge of fatal destiny would turn Frodo aside to Minas Tirith, would spare him at least the fruitless journey through Mordor. Yet his heart misgave him in that, and he was not sure whether he were glad of that doubt. For could he truly hope that Frodo would turn aside? Could he wish for Frodo what he would not accept for himself without shame?

He found himself uncertain in the end. As uncertain as he was of his own fate: _Whither shall I go? To Minas Tirith or to Mordor?_ He would go with Frodo, if Frodo asked that of him – there was no question in his mind. But if Frodo made no command, and left it to him to decide... Well, he had thought it best to hold all together, but that depended upon others, and Elrond's words at their parting, to make no vows who had not seen nightfall, weighed heavy against too-hard-fought persuasion.

And of course, there was the _other_ possibility, and despite his words to Boromir in Lórien, he could not quell the part of him that asked: _And if Frodo takes Mordor and insists you go to Minas Tirith, what then?_

But if the question could not be quelled, neither could it be answered. Shaking his head, he glanced once more at the Fellowship, at friends who were nonetheless withdrawn from each other, and he thought then of Boromir, and frowned in the darkness. For he knew that the Steward's son was troubled – that was no new thing since Imladris, but Moria had left none of them unscathed. Over the weeks since fleeing that dark realm, Boromir had grown more silent. The quest weighed on him, and Aragorn knew all too well how hard it was to leave in other hands a matter that touched so closely on that which one loved best.

Even so, there was in Boromir's silence and in the anger that seemed never far from him, however quiet it might be, something that disturbed, and Aragorn misliked it. He mistrusted it, and mistrusted more the looks that Boromir sent Frodo's way, though that was perhaps unfair. After all, he knew, since their argument in Lórien, where Boromir's doubts lay, and Aragorn could not even dispute their justice. _Still..._

He ought to speak with him. Quietly, where others need not hear. Privacy, though, was hard to come by, and especially with an Elf to overhear. Even luck seemed to be against them, as they drew ever lots for the opposite watch.

_Wake him, then,_ urged fear. _Wake him now!_

But days on the road were long and hard, and in a company only half of whom knew their way about a sword, rest was precious. And a surly-tempered, sleepless Boromir would be unlikely to give him much hearing – less, even, than the guarded man who kept his distances of late. So said reason, not unrightly, and yet...

Glancing up again at the shrouded sky, Aragorn grimaced. _How hard must this test be?_

To that, the stars made no answer.


	7. Riven

_In the Rift, in the Void, Silence began as Silencing – the melody of the song meeting its inverse, the two notes silencing each other. Thus the Company of the Ring journeyed still down Anduin, towards the Falls of Rauros, and the orcs, wander_ _ing upon the east bank, were aware of them. The Nazgûl still rode the skies above them, to be felled by the bow of Legolas. And decision still loomed before them as an oppressive shadow, but it echoed with the horror of the Void which engulfed all the world…._

"Parth Galen," Sam muttered, raising a brow as he surveyed the green sward, with its two hills rising up above them. "Well, it's a nice spot, Mr. Frodo, if we have to stop. Never thought I'd say it, but if those orcs are on our side of the river, I'd rather be floating in the middle of it than sitting alongside it!"  
  
"I know, Sam, but I am afraid we must halt here awhile," Frodo murmured, gazing about and then up at Aragorn who joined them at that moment, as the rest of the Fellowship gathered round. "Do I not guess rightly, Aragorn, that we must decide our path ere we journey farther?"  
  
"Yes, for we are come now to Tol Brandir and the falls of Rauros. The path to the Morannon lies straight east, just north of the mires of Nindalf. Few are the soldiers of Gondor who come so far north, so the risk of detection and detention is slight. He who follows the river beyond Rauros though, will find his journey will become more difficult, if he wishes to pass unseen, as he shall be forced to backtrack through Ithilien and the southern reaches of the fen."  
  
There were some dark and anxious looks exchanged among the Fellowship at that, but none spoke, and eventually, all eyes were turned once more to Frodo. "I fear it falls at last to you, Frodo," Aragorn continued gravely, pinning the hobbit under his sympathetic gaze. "Whither shall you turn? For by your choice, we all are ruled: shall we take the eastward path, or the route to Minas Tirith or elsewhere, if that seems good?"  
  
Frodo was silent then, and the stares of the others pressed heavily upon him, yet he could not speak. _Not yet!_ Looking up once more at the midmorning sky, he sighed. _There is no choice before me, truly, but the choice to accept. But the others... shall I command them to come with me? To go? To choose as they will? And where shall I go from here? Through Gondor, or shall I take the path Aragorn advises for those who would be secret? What truly is best?_  
  
"Give me some small while to think," he said at last. "At noon, I shall declare myself." With that, he turned and walked a short distance away, followed by Sam.  
  
The others gazed after the two of them a moment, and then by unspoken accord, separated, withdrawing naturally into pairs. Merry and Pippin hovered together just far enough from Sam and Frodo to give the latter two privacy; Legolas and Gimli retreated to the banks of the river some small distance upstream; and though Boromir stared at the hobbits in frowning concentration, seemingly oblivious to all others, Aragorn came and stood at his shoulder.  
  
"Boromir," the Ranger spoke softly, and Denethor's son turned quickly, as if startled. One who knew him well might have recognized the flash of nervous loathing in his eyes, but if Aragorn noticed it, he gave no sign, saying only, "Walk with me a ways, please."  
  
"If you wish," Boromir replied after a breath's hesitation, turning to follow the other towards the woods that lay all about the feet of the hills.  
  
Legolas, standing with Gimli, stiffened as he noticed the two Men departing, and his eyes narrowed.  
  
"At last!" the Elf breathed, laying a hand on his companion's shoulder by way of warning, and Gimli turned to look as well. Just ere the two passed out of sight into the trees, Aragorn paused and glanced back at the others, as if to fix their positions in his mind, and his eyes met Legolas's bright gaze. An almost imperceptible nod answered Legolas's expectant regard, and the Elf raised his chin slightly in acknowledgment.  
  
"Mayhap we shall soon learn what ails Boromir," Gimli muttered, stroking his beard contemplatively.  
  
"Yes… mayhap." Minutes passed, and neither Elf nor Dwarf spoke. But after a time, they began to move unerringly towards the forest eaves.  
  


* * *

  
Aragorn glided through the woods ahead of Boromir with an almost elvish grace, and perversely, Boromir found that unconscious ease irritating. He felt clumsy by comparison, and though he knew it was a ridiculous sentiment, he suspected every bush and clinging weed of slapping or clawing at him. All such annoyance, however, merely cloaked the deep uneasiness that stirred in his heart, for he guessed the other's purpose in bringing him here, and he wanted nothing more in the world than to run. But the Heir of Denethor of Minas Tirith had not the habit of retreating from his enemies.  
  
 _And besides, Aragorn, Elf though he seems, is mortal as any Man, and no enemy!_ So reason claimed, and he knew the truth of it, yet that knowledge did not soothe the fear that settled within his breast.  
  
They did not go very far, for the fear of pursuit lay heavily upon all of them after that night upon the water beneath the Winged Shadow – just far enough to ensure that no others could overhear them by accident. Then Aragorn halted and turned to face him, just the two of them alone in a small clearing. For a moment, neither spoke, but Boromir felt tension rise in him as they locked eyes and he felt the other's searching regard like a brand pressed hot against his soul.  
  
 _Let him read it,_ the thought entered suddenly into his mind. _Let him read all, if he will, and rid me of this festering guilt!_ Almost, Boromir yielded to the temptation to speak, to confess and let the wounded part of his soul bleed clean through his words. But he had lived with it now too long, and though a part of him keened in horror, pride and distrust reasserted themselves, grinding that impulse back down. His eyes hardened and his jaw clenched as he waited, determined that the other should speak first.  
  
For his part, Aragorn noted the flicker in the other's grey eyes, the sudden tension that rippled through the other's frame, and he sighed inwardly. _Now do I regret the more that I let wait this matter for so long. I should have made the time earlier!_  
  
But recriminations could change nothing, and so, girding himself unobtrusively, he said, "I think we have both waited on this day for long – to have his path and every other's clear before him. I do not know what Frodo will decide, but if we two should soon part, I would do so in friendship, and with nothing left unsaid between us."  
  
"You say 'if,'" Boromir countered, deliberately ignoring the invitation to speak as a friend, to speak freely of his troubles without fear of scorn. Instead, he focused upon the conditional, trying still to hold Aragorn at arm's length. "Surely you shall go with Frodo?"  
  
"If he will have me," Aragorn replied,as levelly as he could, refusing to rise to the bait. "Of late, I suspect he leans to the lonely path. And above my judgment, I trust that Sam's anxious looks are not for naught."  
  
 _I trust Sam's anxious looks…._ Boromir grimaced slightly as those words pricked deeply at his conscience, arousing envy of that easy trust, and sharp disgust and fear at the reminder of the peril in which all now stood.  
  
"And if Sam's anxious looks prove not for naught?" Boromir demanded.  
  
"That would be a hard choice for us all, should Frodo choose to go eastward alone."  
  
"Hard choice!" Boromir echoed, his voice pitched low but sharply. "A hobbit alone in Mordor… that is not hard, that is madness!" He could not restrain that bitter condemnation, though he rebuked himself the moment it escaped his lips.  
  
"Madness it may be," said Aragorn, slowly, watching Boromir closely now with darkened eyes  
  
"Perhaps it is even truly hopeless, but if so, then no choice of mine can mar or mend the powers that shape these times. Nor can any of yours, Boromir, nor even Frodo's."  
  
"Then are we puppets, and not Men!" snapped the other, fighting against a snarl of disgust that covered over a deeper terror.  
  
"Is that what has troubled you of late?" asked Aragorn, frowning as his eyes searched Boromir's face intently.  
  
"I don't concern myself with useless questions," Boromir snorted, but even as he said it, he felt a sudden thrill of doubt, if only for the way Aragorn was looking at him. Unsettled, he turned away. "What matters it to you what worries I conceive?" he demanded.  
  
"Do you hear yourself?" Aragorn asked, then, tone tinged with alarm. There followed an uncomfortable silence, ere Aragorn said quietly: "I know that we do not agree concerning how we should decide our course. But shall our differences drive us so far from each other that we shall not be concerned for the other?"  
  
"So say you now, yet you have been silent these past weeks – silent since Moria, unless pursued," Boromir retorted.  
  
"I have been remiss," Aragorn admitted, and Boromir silently cursed him for it. "But I would mend my error, if you will allow it." And when still, Boromir said nothing, he continued: "I know you doubt the Council's decision. I do not grudge you that – think you I cannot understand whence stems fear?"  
  
Reasonable the words and reasonable the tone, if one discounted the urgency of the appeal, yet at these words, Boromir turned on the other. "What do you know of my fears?" he snarled, as the resentment of the past weeks came spilling forth then. "You are Isildur's Heir, Aragorn, yet you would gamble that inheritance and the last of our people on this foolish errand? On the teary hopes of fading Elves? If you were any part a Man you would not sit idly by and wait, or trail after Halflings to your death and theirs!"  
  
"What, then, would you do in my stead?" Aragorn asked quietly.  
  
With an hysterical bark of laughter, Boromir shook his head—in denial, in horror, in disgust… he could not say which coursed more strongly in him. Emotions twined themselves so tightly together he could not separate them out. The voice of sanity wailed thin and piercing protest, and yet was impotent before the maelstrom that boiled over. Into his mind blossomed suddenly and with frightening clarity, the image of a thin, golden circle clutched in Frodo's trembling hand.  
  
 _The Ring!_ It glittered with an inner fire, seeming to waver almost coyly, aware of its splendor as Boromir bared his teeth in a soundless snarl. So small a thing, and yet the foundation of Sauron's might: the thread upon which they dangled now, and the menace of the world. A mad light, infected with lust and despair, gleamed sickly in his grey eyes, and he drew his sword as he answered with sudden and disturbing calm:  
  
"Take what is mine!"  
  
Aragorn dodged the first blow, but could not clear his own weapon before Boromir sprang at him, slamming him against a tree and pinning him there. Still, he managed to catch the other's wrists in an iron grip and he pushed back, locking the two of them into a grappling stance in which neither could move. The sword's edge lay against Aragorn's throat, but it moved no further: for though Boromir was the broader in build, Aragorn had not less strength for his leanness. Evenly matched, they gazed at each other over the length of steel, and then Boromir leaned closer to whisper in his ear in an obscene parody of intimacy:  
  
"Against Mordor there is but one tower, and one weapon alone can wound the Dark Lord." Aragorn closed his eyes, fairly sick with sorrow and frustration as Boromir went on with smooth urgency:  
  
"The Ring! It shall never reach the Fire in Frodo's hands – you know this! And yet Frodo is our only hope, they say. Let it not come to that then, my friend! Take the Ring. Take it, or I shall!"  
  


* * *

  
"Think you that the Shadow on high shall come again?" Gimli asked, squatting on his haunches under the eaves of the woods and gazing moodily out at the east bank of the river. Legolas had already vaulted to the lowest branch of the tree at his back, seeming to need the comfort of a familiar environment, and the Dwarf fought a smile. Often he forgot that the elven prince was yet accounted young among his people, and he supposed that this eager flight to the treetops was a sign of the other's youth.  
  
 _Rather like a child who runs immediately to find a spot near the fire whenever storms threaten,_ he thought. It was an odd insight into the other, but a dear one as well. For ere Lórien, Legolas had remained always earthbound, though he had oft raised his eyes to the treetops with longing. That he gave in to the impulse now, and in Gimli's presence, struck the Dwarf as a compliment of sorts – as if the Elf had permitted him this glimpse into a little-seen part of his soul.  
  
"I know not," Legolas's voice drifted down in response. "But my heart warns that we shall see more of these fell creatures ere the war ends." A pause. "Whither will you go once Frodo has made his choice?"  
  
The Dwarf blew a large, considerate sigh through his mustaches, and scowled thoughtfully. "When we left Rivendell, I swore that I was willing to go whithersoever I was needed, yet I had never looked further than the mountains. Now we are come far south of Erebor, and Mirkwood, too, is many leagues behind. 'Tis a hard choice. What of you, Legolas? Will you return to your home?"  
  
"Once I thought to turn aside after the gate of Caradhras," the Elf confessed. "Yet I remain here with this company, and I do not regret the choice. Indeed, the world is wider than I thought, and there is much to see, even in dark times. Much to see, and more to do, and more still that needs doing."  
  
"I think that if Frodo decides for Mordor, I would go with him, if he asked," Gimli said at last.  
  
"Ah," Legolas replied, and a half-smile curved his mouth, "There you find the heart of the matter. If he asks us to go, who would refuse? Save Boromir, but he has other duties that he may not lightly abandon."  
  
At that, both fell silent once more. Merry and Pippin wandered nearer, and Gimli sighed softly, wondering whither their deliberations led. Of a sudden, there was a blur of motion in the corner of his eye as Legolas landed on the ground beside him. "What is it?" he asked, startled by the other's abrupt descent and even more so by the arrested expression on the Elf's face.  
  
"Listen!" Legolas replied tautly, and the Dwarf followed his gaze into the woods, whence emerged, in a muffled fashion, Boromir's voice, sounding harsh and angry. Gimli bit his lip hard as the words became intelligible:  
  
"— you know of my fears? You are Isildur's Heir, Aragorn, yet you would gamble that inheritance and the last of our people on this foolish errand? On the teary hopes of fading Elves? If you were any part a Man you would not sit idly by and wait, or trail after Halflings to your death and theirs!"  
  
Aragorn's reply was too low and shrouded to make out, but Boromir's response was clear enough: "Take what is mine!" And then came the slither of steel, which all the members of the Fellowship knew too well. Gimli and Legolas shared a horrified look with each other, and then darted into the woods.  
  


* * *

  
"Pippin!" Merry clutched his arm tightly, pointing after the Elf and Dwarf, who fled into the trees.  
  
"I don't like that!" Pippin replied, glancing anxiously at his friend.  
  
"Nor I!" Sam and Frodo had come running up, having seen the other two depart in haste, and now the hobbits hesitated, wondering what might have occurred. And where were Boromir and Aragorn?  
  
A moment longer they wavered, uncertain, and then all plunged after their companions into the woods.  
  


* * *

  
"Take it, Aragorn!" Boromir hissed in his face, eyes alight with an unholy desire, and Aragorn swallowed a groan as he opened his eyes once more.  
  
"No!" he replied, and gritted his teeth, feeling the blade press harder against his throat as Boromir leaned into him. "Are you blind, Boromir, that you do not see whence this comes? I am not your enemy, but the Ring is!"  
  
"Is it?" Boromir snapped. "I see clearly enough the choice before me, and I say that the Ring is less an enemy than are indecision, mad schemes, and blind trust! But I can act, and if you seek to stop me, then…."  
  
"Then?" Aragorn ground out through his teeth when Boromir hesitated. "Will you kill me for this accursed trinket? Is that truly your wish?"  
  
"I warn you again, do not presume too much!" Boromir snapped. "Think you that there is anything that I would not do for Minas Tirith? What is your life, or even Frodo's, weighed against a kingdom?"  
  
"What worth has a kingdom, if it is founded upon murder?" countered Aragorn. But ere Boromir could respond, there came the sound of running footsteps, and for a moment, the other was distracted. Boromir glanced swiftly over his shoulder just as Legolas and Gimli appeared, coming swiftly through the trees towards them.  
  
In that instant, Aragorn attacked. With his back braced against the tree, he drove his knee into the other's groin, then pushed hard as Boromir gasped. Retaining his hold on the other's wrists, he shoved away from the tree trunk, then used momentum to swing round and reverse their positions, driving Boromir back now against the tree. And he pinned the other's sword arm between their bodies, leaning in as if lunging against him, leverage and protection at once. Boromir, though, did not surrender easily, possessed of some strength in that moment whose source Aragorn would not have liked to guess.  
  
Happily, at just that moment, Legolas and Gimli burst into the little clearing, and seeing the struggle afoot, Elf and Dwarf swept quickly forward and lent Aragorn their aid, restraining the swearing, writhing Boromir with their weight.  
  
"Boromir, let it go," Aragorn spoke urgently. "Let it go!"  
  
Whether the others understood his meaning, he knew not, but the sword fell from Boromir's hand as he gazed past Aragorn, stricken with sudden and rigid immobility. With Gimli and Legolas helping to hold the other back, the Ranger risked a brief glance over his shoulder and saw the hobbits, all four of them, standing and watching in uncomprehending horror.  
  
 _Except for Frodo,_ Aragorn noted grimly as he turned back to Boromir again. _He knows. How could he not?_  
  
Denethor's son must also have felt his treason under the hobbit's agonized regard, for he hung his head, and there were tears in his voice as he gave a low, wordless cry. Then, without warning, he slumped to the ground, and Aragorn staggered under the sudden weight as he awkwardly broke the other's fall.  
  
"Do not touch me!" Boromir muttered, drawing his knees up to his chest and hiding his face in his hands, withdrawing as much as he could from the others. Dead silence fell as all hovered about, immobile with shock. Legolas and Gimli looked away, ashamed before the other's shame, but Aragorn could not turn from him. More, he would not – not after he had failed the other so singularly, refusing to see clearly the danger that lay before his eyes.  
  
"Wh-what happened?" Sam's voice, gruff with worry, sounded then, but none could speak. What, indeed, could any one of them have said when each knew the answer to that question? Among the Fellowship a guilty complicity settled, as each saw now in Boromir's fall his own failures, recognizing the divisions that had perhaps blinded them to a companion's need.  
  
"I will go to Mordor," Frodo spoke suddenly, and his voice was grave and grieved, and all turned to look at him. He stood there, clutching the Ring tightly in one hand as it hung upon its chain, and there was no sign of doubt or disquiet, only determination. "I will go, and alone, for I see clearly now that I can delay no longer, for all of our sakes."  
  
"If you're going, then I am coming, too!" Sam spoke up fiercely, and wagged a finger at his master when Frodo began to shake his head. "No, you listen to me a minute, Mr. Frodo! You're right about the danger, but alone in that ugly place, you'll need help. This… thing… it feeds on us most when we're as low as we can get, and you can't get no lower than Mordor, that's for certain. It needs another to help you along."  
  
"I think Sam speaks wisely in this, if I may say so," Aragorn added, lending his support unexpectedly. "Any of us would go with you, Frodo, if you but named him."  
  
"Yes," Legolas said, "You need only ask, or failing that, choose!" There was a heavy silence, as the Fellowship awaited a response. Frodo glanced about, searching each face in turn, even Boromir's, though Boromir would not look at him, ere he sighed and glanced down at the earth.  
  
Finally, after a long moment, he laid a hand upon Sam's shoulder, confirming the other in his station. No words, not even a final look at the others. Only that spare gesture which yet conveyed so much, and then he turned away.  
  
Sam, following obediently and with obvious relief, yet hesitated, turning back to those friends whom he would leave now behind. He raised a hand hesitantly, offering a wavering half-smile in wordless, nervous farewell, and then he, too, was gone.  
  
The remainder of the Company remained silent, unmoving as stones beneath the trees. Thus was the tale of the Fellowship of the Ring ended, though already, things moved that would drag them back into the struggle once more.

_For things did move, even in the spreading Silence, and over the Sundering Seas came a small ship to dock at Tol Eressëa, whence strode Gildor Inglorien, bearing lament, and the tale of a woodland meeting, of a heavy charge and of threadbare hope by which hung all the world..._


	8. Shrive Me Graceless on My Path

How long the remainder of the Fellowship remained frozen in place, hardly able to accept that indeed, Frodo was gone, that their days together were at an end – and so horribly ended! – none could say with certainty. It seemed an eternity ere Legolas at last shook his fair head and glanced once more with concern at Boromir, who yet refused to meet anyone's gaze.   
  
"Well, now must we decide our own paths," said the Elf. Still, no one moved, and the silence stretched on.   
  
Aragorn, deep in his own thoughts, was aware of the leaden shock that still draped them, and sought a means to lift it, or at least to escape it for a time. But as his mind raced, his attention caught suddenly on a noise, as of many creatures moving through the forest. His head jerked up, and the others, startled by his sudden motion, looked up in surprise.  
  
" _Yrch!_ " Legolas was first to recognize the threat, and even as he rose, realization struck the others as well. Boromir grabbed his sword off the ground and stood, while Gimli laid his hands on the haft of his ax. The hobbits drew nearer their taller companions, and the remainder of the Company pressed close, facing outward in a defensive knot. Harsh voices cried out as the first dark shapes appeared amidst the trees, and then that fell company turned toward the remainder of the Fellowship.   
  
"Curse the luck," Gimli grated, and left unspoken the concern that all shared: Frodo and Sam could not have gone so very far, and might still be at risk, especially without the protection that numbers offered. Aragorn and the Dwarf exchanged a grim look, knowing that whatever passed next, they could not allow the orcs to break past them without a fight.   
  
Not that that seemed to be at issue, for their foes were streaming about them, cutting off all avenues of escape, calling to each other in their harsh tongue as they came.  
  
"Moria again!" Merry groaned, gripping his Barrow-blade tightly.  
  
The orcs yelled out a harsh war cry, and the Company braced itself as its enemies swarmed forward, surrounding the six of them. Boromir's horn blast startled them, and for a moment they hesitated, which let Legolas shoot four in swift succession. But such diversions could not save them: as the echoes died, the battle was joined in earnest as the orcs closed in from all sides.   
  
If the orcs, however, had anticipated a quick and easy victory, they swiftly learned their error. Boromir and Aragorn, by unspoken agreement, stood directly behind each other so as to best exploit their greater reach, while Legolas bent his bow, with Gimli before him, axe in hand to give him room to shoot. Merry and Pippin huddled to either side of Boromir, determined to help their friends as best they could.   
  
Thus when the orcs closed, they faced no confused assortment of warriors but found themselves repelled with brutal efficiency. Within the first few exchanges, Aragorn had acquired a shield from a fallen orc, and Legolas's bow thinned the ranks. Boromir, veteran of many campaigns, laid low any who dared approach him, and the haft of Gimli's axe soon was bloodstained. Even Merry and Pippin proved formidable as they fought to buy their friend and cousin time enough to escape….  
  


* * *

  
And perhaps a half a mile away, just on the banks of the Anduin, Frodo and Sam went rigid as Boromir's horn call reached their ears, clear and defiant through the trees.   
  
"But we only just left them!" Sam protested, looking back anxiously at the woods.   
  
"Aragorn feared there were orcs on this bank," Frodo replied, and then turned quickly to the boats. Throwing his pack into one, he grabbed Sam's and, with a grunt, managed to heft it over the edge. "See to the other boats, Sam!"  
  
"Sir?" The other hobbit frowned, uncomprehending for a moment. Then he sucked in a breath. "But won't the others – ?"  
  
"Sam, whatever befalls them, they shan't need the boats again, but our enemies may realize what we have done and come for us if we leave them intact. It need not be anything fancy, just keep them from floating!" Frodo ordered, and began to drag their chosen boat off of the shoals and into the water.   
  
Samwise watched him a moment, then drew his Barrow-blade with a sigh and went to work. It seemed wrong somehow to damage something that came of elvish hands, yet his master was correct. So as the sounds of combat drifted downwind to his ears, he resolutely began to cut through the bottoms of the little boats, a task which proved far easier than he would have guessed it to be. Perhaps, he thought, they knew somehow of his intentions and let themselves be mauled....   
  
_Nonsense, Sam, that's a bit of absurdity there! Boats don't think nothing._ And yet, when he had finished, he felt constrained to bow politely ere he turned to join Frodo in the shallows.   
  
"Well, it's done. But I can't feel right about it, nor about leaving the others like this," Sam said worriedly, glancing back at the lawn and the ominous trees. "Poor Merry and Pippin! Do you think they'll be alright, sir?"  
  
"I hope so. They have Strider and Legolas to look after them, and Gimli and Boromir would never leave them. That I know, whatever else may be said," Frodo muttered, and then his mouth tightened as he clutched the Ring. "But we cannot concern ourselves with that now. If they live, then they must away to the end that awaits them."  
  
"And if they do not?" Sam asked softly as they began to paddle out into the deeps.   
  
"If they do not, then we must not let their deaths mean nothing at all!" Frodo grated harshly, hating to say so when he knew very well that the Darkness covered all and that hope, unless wholly unforeseen, lay smothering beneath that dreadful veil.   
  
_We must not look now for a final victory,_ he thought. _I must take what small ones I can find, and if the others die to let us get only as far as the Black Gates or even the other shore of Anduin, then that must be counted as a triumph, however temporary. At least if they fall, it is an end for them, and a release._   
  
The hobbits watched the eastern banks grow before them, and though Sam cast a final, regretful look back, the west seemed dim indeed.  
  


* * *

  
Beneath the trees, blood sprayed hot, arcing in an obscenely graceful fountain as an orc fell back before Andúril, and immediately, another grim-garbed soldier leapt in to take his place. Though only a small number of their enemies could engage them at any one time, it seemed that the orcs waited for one of their number to fall, crowding each other in the hopes of having a chance at the Fellowship. They were hemmed in tightly now; so much so that Legolas, having put up his bow once more, had added a long dagger to his elven-blade and wielded both with graceful lethality as still, the orcs pressed in.   
  
And though it was difficult at the moment to be thankful for such bloodthirsty determination, at least the group had not split into two to search the area in spite of the fight. Aragorn held that thought firmly in mind as he fought.   
  
For however much they delayed the orcs, the Ranger knew that there could be but one outcome, for six against a hundred is not a battle to be won by skill and courage alone. He hoped indeed that Frodo and Sam were at least crossing the Anduin now, if not already upon the eastern shore….   
  
Of a sudden, something whistled past his face, and as he jerked to one side, an orc's blade found its way past his defense, though he felt nothing.   
  
"Archers!" Legolas cried, and Boromir cursed at the same moment. The company drew closer together, trying to find some shelter behind the shields that the two Men bore, but they could only retreat so far without hindering each other. Aragorn bounced a few arrows off the iron-rimmed roundel, and let the orcs close in a bit further. It was a risky maneuver, yet if he could hold them at a closer range, the archers might not shoot for fear of hitting their own.   
  
_Or they might shoot through them,_ he thought grimly, for he had seen that before, too, and some of these orcs were both unusually large and of a company he had never encountered hitherto. They were certainly more disciplined than those of the Red Eye, and Aragorn was surprised to catch a straight broadsword against his shield. But there were few options, and so he took his chances.   
  
And surprisingly, risk seemed to pay in reward, as the arrows thinned on his side. And as time wore on and still they survived, surprise quietly became a wordless scrutiny, for Aragorn had fought too many battles to believe that the continued survival of the remaining Fellowship was due to their own efforts in such desperate straits. Hard-pressed as he was, still, it seemed to him that the orcs held back. Indeed, the orcs seemed… disinterested, almost, as if killing were not their first aim...   
  
All such speculations flitted swiftly through his mind on a level just above instinctive, yet he grasped their implications and risked a glance to either side of him. He and Legolas and Gimli were struggling, yes, but the current of orcs told that their enemies' attention lay more upon Boromir… and then he felt his blood run chill.   
  
_Not upon Boromir_ , he realized, _but upon those closest to him!_  
  
The Ranger spared a brief glance over his shoulder to where Merry and Pippin stood in desperate combat just as another rain of arrows poured down. Most struck Boromir's shield and fell harmlessly to the earth; others, indeed, hit orcs who stood too close; but a few found their way through and Legolas snarled as one grazed his back. And in that interlude, as the Company was forced to cover as best they could, the orcs charged in, bearing down on the hobbits. Aragorn found himself borne back by the press of his foes, until he collided with a beleaguered Gimli, and then Boromir, too, was shoved hard against him, cursing as a blade raked his flesh, making him falter a moment.   
  
A moment was all that was needed.  
  
"Merry! Pippin!" the Steward's son cried out, watching helplessly as the better part of their enemies broke away with the struggling hobbits in hand. Hard-pressed, he could do nothing but save his own life. More arrows rained down to cover the retreat, and Boromir ducked under his shield, cursing. Gimli staggered as one deflected off his hauberk, and it was pure good fortune that that misstep sent him under the swing of an orc's sword; Legolas howled an eerie, Sindarin war-cry and lunged, his blade finding a mark ere both he and Gimli retreated together to stand back to back against Aragorn and Boromir.   
  
"We cannot win against even this many if the archers remain," Boromir said grimly, voice taut, and Aragorn shot him a hard look. The Man of Gondor met his gaze briefly, and a fierce, sad smile lit his face an instant. "Take care of them!"   
  
And then, ere Aragorn could protest or question that command, with a bellowed cry, Boromir cut past the thinned ring of orcs, bludgeoning those in his path with his shield—and then he turned straight into the hail of arrows and charged the line of archers.   
  
"Boromir!" Aragorn cried out after him, but it was of no use, and in the end, the Ranger knew that the other had the right of it. One of them had to deal with the archers if any of them were to survive, yet he who did so was unlikely to live. Struggling to do the work of two in their knotted defense, he caught a brief glimpse of the archers as they retreated before Boromir's onslaught, ere he had to attend the task at hand.  
  
Without the deadly distraction of orcish arrows, the three remaining companions fought simply to hold their place, and as the orcs' numbers dwindled, their surviving foes drew back, unwilling to continue the fight. At last, Gimli, Legolas and Aragorn stood together in a wedge, and they gazed across the bloody field at the seven or eight orcs that hovered out of reach. For a brief interval, the two sides simply stared, and no one seemed willing to make the first move, whatever it might be. Suddenly, one of the orcs hissed, and Aragorn knocked the thrown dagger aside with his blade. But there came no fresh assault: the last few orcs simply fled, scattering into the woods.   
  
Wary still, Legolas and Gimli stood silent a long moment, but Aragorn, after casting a glance round out of habit, darted forward, following in Boromir's path. He soon came upon the first of the bodies—a decapitated orc bearing the sign of the Red Eye—and he followed the trail of destruction some distance further 'til he came to a small clearing not unlike the one in which they had been assailed. Several orcs lay there, but he guessed that equally many had escaped to trail after their fleeing fellows. Arrows littered the area, buried in the boles of trees or dug into the ground; some were trampled and others splintered by the force of their impact.  
  
Upon one tree, at somewhat less than a man's height, there was blood aplenty smeared in a gory trail down the length of the trunk… and nestled at its base was Boromir.   
  
Aragorn knelt wordlessly at the other's side, letting fall the shield as his eyes flicked over the other's body, noting the cluster of arrows embedded just below his heart, in his stomach, shoulder, leg. The wood of the tree was scored, and Aragorn felt wrath and disgust flare hotly, realizing what he saw: _He was done before this—they could have slain him, but they took their time, shot him at close range, and in the end they_ left _him to die like a wounded beast!_ And yet, Boromir still clung to life, his breathing shallow and pained as the Ranger reached out and laid a gentle hand upon the other's shoulder. "Boromir," he called softly.  
  
The dying man's eyes opened and focused with difficulty upon Aragorn's face.   
  
"Tell… the others…'twas madness…." Boromir paused, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.   
  
"They know," Aragorn assured him.   
  
"…'m sorry, Aragorn," the other whispered. "My… brother…father… they wait for… me. You must… tell them. Go! Save our people!" At that Boromir reached weakly and clutched the Ranger's arm, and Aragorn covered that pale hand with his own as he nodded.  
  
"I will."  
  
"Strange," Boromir gave a ghastly smile as he gazed up at the other, grey eyes beginning to dim. "'Tis so dark here! The Valar forsake us… but I would… would be forgiven nonetheless!"  
  
"Then be comforted, for of me you need ask no pardon. Rest you gentle, my friend," Aragorn murmured, and drew the other into an embrace, wishing he could be certain that indeed there was nothing to forgive. _But we are forsaken, as he says. What grace we find here must be of our own crafting first. Mayhap it will still be enough to move Nienna to tears!_   
  
Boromir's head rested against his chest, and Aragorn fought his own pain to shelter the other this first and final time. Ere long, he felt the hand on his arm tighten, and Boromir gave a soft gasp as if in surprise… and then there was silence, and Aragorn was left holding Boromir's still form, weeping quietly.   
  
After a short while, he felt another's hands upon his shoulders as Legolas came and knelt beside him in wordless consolation, and he glanced up to see Gimli squatting on his haunches across from him. The Dwarf's dark eyes glittered and he murmured something under his breath in his own tongue ere he said, "A bitter end for us all!"  
  
"Bitter indeed," Aragorn replied, seeking some measure of composure as he carefully laid Boromir down and glanced over his shoulder at Legolas's drawn face. "And we know not yet whether his sacrifice is in vain!"  
  
"Think you that the orcs may have taken more than Merry and Pippin?" the Elf asked worriedly.   
  
"I doubt it, given their behavior," Aragorn sighed. "Yet it would be foolish to be certain until we have seen what remains of our camp."  
  
"And what of Merry and Pippin?" Gimli asked. "If the worst has happened, must we abandon them utterly?"  
  
"Let us not look too far ahead," Legolas interjected ere Aragorn could respond. "We must see to Boromir first, for whatever our course after this, we may not simply leave him thus."  
  
"Nor may we go far without having tended to you, Master Elf," Aragorn replied, and Legolas turned a startled look on him. "Even a glancing blow may slow you if there be poison on the edge of arrow or blade, or if the road proves long." The elven prince reached behind himself, as if suddenly reminded of the injury.   
  
"I think it is not too deep, and the pain is not too severe," he replied. "Later will be soon enough for me, for we have other tasks to attend to."  
  
"Well, let us be about them then," Gimli sighed as he rose and took his ax to hand once more. Eyeing the bloodied tree, he muttered, "At least we shall have a fitting bier!"  
  
While Gimli busied himself with crafting a travois of sorts, Aragorn and Legolas gathered what they could from the bodies of the orcs. Arrows, at least, were not difficult to come by, and the Elf emptied an entire quiver into his own, frowning as he held one of the dark-feathered shafts up to his arm, measuring the length. The Ranger, in the mean time, stooped and picked up a helm, grimacing in disgust as blood dripped out of it and stained his hands. A red-flecked "S" rune, forged in white, stood out clearly against the dark metal, and Aragorn cast his gaze about, tallying up the number of orcs that bore the same symbol.   
  
"Red Eye and White Hand," he said aloud, frowning. "I do not like this!"  
  
"What think you of this?" Legolas called from the other side of the clearing, holding up a sword fashioned after a Mannish, rather than orcish, style: though the edge had been worked in a ripple-pattern, it was not a scimitar by any means.   
  
"Some of the orcs in the other clearing bore similar weapons," Aragorn replied. "But that they are somewhat too short for most Men, I would say that they were stolen."  
  
"Aye. These arrows, too, are nearly a match in length for my own," the Elf said. "And the bows are long bows, not the cross bows or short, hunting ones common to the orcs that plague Mirkwood."  
  
"What make you of this mystery, then?" Gimli asked, joining them. "What are these orcs of the White Hand?"  
  
"Here!" Aragorn lobbed the helmet at him, and the Dwarf caught it, gazing thoughtfully at the rune. "Saruman, it seems plain to me, is behind this. For Sauron's token is the Red Eye, and he has no need of any other. White, too, is not a color he would use, but we know well that Saruman is called 'the White.'"  
  
"But there lie here and yonder also servants of Sauron," Legolas protested. "Why then do you guess that this is only Saruman's plan? And what was their intention in all of this?"  
  
"That we shall have to discover, though I have my guesses already. This only will I say and stand by: the orcs of Isengard commanded this attack, though I cannot say whether Mordor's soldiery agreed to such leadership in advance or simply lost it to the great orcs. And we were not ourselves the object," replied the Ranger. "But now we must hasten! Let us return with Boromir now to the camp and see what may be seen."   
  
Determinedly, but with dread anticipation, they made their slow and grim way back to Parth Galen.  
  


* * *

  
A/N: Vocabulary lesson of the day: Shrive: verb. (noun = "shrift", as in "short shrift") The act of formally forgiving someone, usually connected to the Roman Catholic sacrament of repentance. In the bad old days, it was considered a Bad Thing to die unshriven and go to face one's maker with one's sins unconfessed and unforgiven by a priest. There's nothing equivalent in LOTR to an organized religion, but I think Boromir has an understated spirituality that comes out at the end. It's just too bad for him that at the moment, the Powers That Be in Arda seem not to be listening. Hence the "graceless" part of the title.


	9. The Road Goes Ever On

From the eaves of the woods came toiling three figures in the late light of the day: Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas walked slowly, burdened as they were by the body of their friend. Elf and Dwarf each had a grip on one side of the rough bier, while Aragorn supported the front end alone.   
  
Gimli had argued somewhat over Legolas's participation, for despite his earlier words, it was clear that the Elf was in pain. But Legolas would not be gainsaid, and Aragorn, sensing that further talk over this matter would only lead to ill-feeling, had suggested the compromise. "For though we would not slight Boromir's memory, we have much need of haste," he argued. "Come, take the left side, Legolas, and Gimli stand to the right. There!"   
  
So they had settled the issue, and now emerged from the shadowed woods onto the open bank and none could forbear to hold his breath, anticipating the worst, afraid to hope for good news lest they be dreadfully disappointed.   
  
When they had come to their camp site, the companions gently set the bier down and gazed about. Aragorn stood silent an instant, following the hobbit prints with his eyes, remarking the scrapes that indicated the sliding passage of a hull into the water. Of a sudden, he strode swiftly to the remaining boats, glancing first at the baggage and then peering into the little craft. After a brief moment, to the surprise of his friends, he began to laugh softly, and there was in the quality of that laughter relief that bordered on pain, so deep did it cut.   
  
"What is it?" Legolas called, for neither he nor Gimli were willing to risk marring any useful marks before Aragorn had had a chance to read them: they stood still by Boromir, leaving clear the slight depression where lay their gear. For answer, Aragorn grabbed the prow of one of the boats and tipped it to starboard, exposing the keel. Elf and Dwarf stared for a moment, then exchanged a look of profound, almost wearying, satisfaction as they saw the rents in the bottom.   
  
"One would say that they wished to be certain we could not follow them!" Legolas laughed.  
  
"Neither we, nor any other, less well-intentioned hunters. Frodo kept his wits about him, which gives me hope." The Ranger sighed softly, raising eyes noticeably brighter to gaze at his companions. "Well, they have crossed the river after all! For that at least, we may say that Boromir did not die in vain."  
  
"What shall we do now, though? We have not the time to build a cairn," Gimli asked. "What is the custom of Gondor in such circumstances as these?"  
  
"Were he in Minas Tirith, he would go to lie with his ancestors in the Houses of the Dead," Aragorn replied, and shook his head. "Else, the Gondorrim bury their fallen comrades together upon the field."  
  
"But we have no shovels," Legolas frowned.   
  
For a time, all three stood silent, considering the problem, but finally, Aragorn gave a soft grunt and sighed. "I can think of but one thing to do," he said reluctantly, seeming as one who likes not what need brings. "We have not the time to fell a tree for wood, but the boats will provide both setting and fuel. I would not have it thus, but that we have no other choice and I think Boromir would not wish us to tarry o'erlong on his behalf. At least there is a precedent: in the earliest days of the Third Age, after the Dagorlad, the dead lay hip deep in places. Rather than let time and the carrion beasts wreak their havoc, the survivors burned the bodies and scattered the ashes over the battlefield."   
  
Legolas grimaced in distaste and Gimli, too, seemed unhappy with this solution, but neither spoke, for it was clear that there was nothing else that they could do. Aragorn glanced from one to the other, seeming to want to be certain that they were in agreement, ere he continued, "Before we send Boromir to his final rest, though, let us put all in readiness to depart. And I would see to you, Legolas, as well."  
  
So, while Gimli hauled their baggage away from the boats and began to sort through their belongings, Aragorn took Legolas aside to tend to the other's injury. The mark showed dark and ugly against the Elf's pale skin, but he did not flinch as the Ranger examined him carefully. The arrow had opened a long gash down Legolas's back that ran over his shoulder blade and skittered at the end as the head had deflected off the quiver. Although no bone showed through the wound, Aragorn frowned, for such an injury, though not serious, would be slow to heal.   
  
_At least I see no sign of poison,_ Aragorn thought. _And there has been time enough for all but the most sophisticated of them to show, so I shall not now worry over that at least!_ Aloud, he said, "Fortune walks with you, son of Thranduil, for the wound is clean and, given time and rest, should heal well enough."  
  
"But? Come, Aragorn, tell me all! For your voice holds some reservation, and an Elf's ears are not easily deceived," Legolas prompted, turning his head to watch the other out of the corners of his eyes.   
  
"But," Aragorn paused, acknowledging the other's perception, "a wound like this may not close quickly because of where it lies. Walking or running, the muscle beneath it will contract and break any stitches I might set; even breathing, if labored, may be enough to open the injury. And then there is the matter of straps and quivers. You would do well to move the latter to your hip, and Gimli and I will take as much of your baggage as we are able. In the mean time, I will do what I can, but I fear that until we reach a place of safety, where you may rest, this will give you trouble. Unless you remain behind…."  
  
"Nay, I shall not!" Legolas replied firmly, laying to rest any hopes Aragorn might have entertained.   
  
"Then be sure to tell us when your pain grows too great," the Ranger responded, rising. He took a few swift strides to where Gimli knelt, sifting the contents of their gear, and after a moment's surveillance, reached unerringly for a dark, well-worn sack that nestled among his belongings. Returning to the Elf's side, he took from it a small jar, a set of clean bandages, and a small vial. There came the sound of water splashing on the sandy ground, as Aragorn quickly washed the grime from his hands. Then Legolas hissed as the Ranger began to clean the wound.   
  
"Time is short, and I fear I used the last of the _athelas_ that I had tending to Sam after Moria," the Ranger said by way of apology. "But _shadur_ will serve as well, though less gently! Deep in Harad, where fresh water is scarce and precious, and heat kills, they crush the _chidah_ leaf and ferment the liquid. This they then use to cleanse wounds. One cannot drink it, 'tis so strong – the Haradrim value it for its medicinal use alone, and it is not difficult in the north to make something near to it for the same purposes."  
  
"I thought that Harad was barren desert," the Elf said, surprised, welcoming the distraction of conversation.   
  
"It depends upon the province. Many are very dry. But the _chidah_ is a water-heavy plant, and there are many small seas scattered throughout Harad where it will grow, though I suppose 'lake' or even 'pond' might be a better word for such seas. They are as wells that lie too close to the surface of the earth, and so seep from the ground to form long, shallow pools. Oft one can tell somewhat of the soil to look at them, or to taste the water.   
  
"The Haradrim hold such places dear, and say that different waters are cure different ills, much as we use different herbs for different maladies." The Ranger paused and set aside the vial, picking up the jar of salve instead. Gently, but swiftly nonetheless, he began to smear the clear, viscous stuff over the cut. "A fascinating place, Harad, but one I was glad to leave behind. I fear that this will be a nightly chore, Legolas," he added, winding clean bandages around the Elf's torso and then up cross-wise over his shoulder.   
  
"So long as I am able to run the next day, I shall endure it," the elven prince replied easily enough, shrugging carefully to test the bandaging as he stood and snatched his tunic from the ground to examine the blood-stained tear in the fabric. With a slight grimace, the Elf folded it neatly and went to put it away, hunting through the piles that Gimli had made of his gear for a good minute ere he found what he needed. Whatever the salve that Aragorn had used, it seemed to have more properties than the Ranger had told, for Legolas felt the pain fade to an odd numbness as he pulled a fresh tunic on over his head.   
  
_Alas, without its distraction, other pains prick the sharper,_ the Elf thought, throwing his cloak about his shoulders and fastening the broach as he turned to stare at the bier, where Aragorn now knelt. He felt another presence at his side, and glanced down to where Gimli stood, gazing with no small concern at their human friends.   
  
But after a moment, the Dwarf laid a hand on his arm, suggesting with that touch that they leave the Ranger what privacy they could. Legolas followed the other's lead, turning away. And while he waited, he took advantage of the moment to try to reconcile himself with what must come next. He knew well whereof Aragorn spoke, for there were among his father's people many who remembered the Dagorlad, but he could find no comfort in the idea of committing a dear friend to the fire. That Aragorn seemed troubled as well only unsettled him further, but there truly was no other choice, and the Elf grieved silently.   
  
_For we failed him, Gimli and I. We failed both of them: Aragorn no less than Boromir. I should have trusted Gimli's judgment better, and spoken with Aragorn ere we left Lothlórien. Alas, we shall never know now what might have been, had I done so!_ Behind him, he heard a soft sigh, and then Aragorn's voice, low and taut, reached him: "It is time. Gimli, if you would…."   
  
With a nod, Gimli assented to the half-spoken request, and went to the Ranger's side. Stooping, the pair lifted the bier once more, and Man and Dwarf bore it to the boats. Carefully, they laid their fallen companion within one, and Legolas glided over to join them. He and Gimli stood silently, uncertain of themselves for neither were familiar with southern custom, or with that of Aragorn's people.   
  
And so they said nothing, watching as Aragorn knelt once more to remove the great horn that Boromir kept ever at his side. Slinging it over one shoulder, he said, "If it be my fate and luck, I would return this to his family, for ere the Stewards ruled Gondor, this horn was a mark of their line. And I will do all I can to honor my promise, Boromir. Fare you well!"   
  
With that he stood, and beckoning once more to Gimli, went to the other boat, which they hefted and set as a cover over the first, forming almost a coffin. A moment they stood still, while Gimli fumbled in his pouch for his tinderbox. No torch had they, but the boats caught quickly, and the flames began to lick along the edges, spreading with a marvelous swiftness to consume all. Dwarf and Man bowed their heads, though after but a brief space, Aragorn raised his eyes again, seeming unable to bear to look away.  
  
For his part, Legolas found himself struck by an almost physical awe and horror, the like of which he had never before felt, and he staggered back, grasping blindly for his companions in a most unusual fit of discomposure, as the world seemed to dim before his eyes.   
  
He felt Gimli catch his arm on one side, and Aragorn braced his shoulders from the other as the three of them retreated from the heat of the blaze. Distance did little to calm his chaotic emotions, but at least the movement and the feel of the others at his side bolstered him. Still, when he spoke, his words came in Sindarin, for it seemed Westron had abandoned him. At his side, he heard Aragorn translating, as if by rote habit, and their words blended with the roar of the flames:   
  
"So even with Fëanor was it, that to ash all returns when the spirit is fled!"

* * *

Pippin woke in pain, and such was the noisome assault upon his senses that he retched violently. Perhaps fortunately, he had nothing in his stomach to vomit, for he doubted that the orc that carried him would have appreciated that overt sign of his discomfort. His head throbbed in time to the jarring strides, and he felt as though his arms were being wrenched from their sockets. All around him, harsh breathing and swift, heavy footfalls sounded, the rushed tempo broken only by the occasional orcish curse.   
  
_Where am I? And where am I being taken?_ he wondered miserably. Flashes of the battle in the woods returned to him, and he gritted his teeth, wishing he knew whether the others were even still alive. _How could they be? There were so many orcs! And the arrows…!_ Thought of his friends lying among the foul orcs, unmourned and unburied, pulled a sob from his lips that turned swiftly to a gasp as his particular orc abruptly shouldered a companion hard. The impact rocked Pippin's head on his shoulders and the flurry of guttural, hateful orcish grated on his nerves like claws.   
  
_What are they on about?_ he wondered in spite of himself, his curiosity overcoming even the horror of his situation. _Can they not just run? Why all this shoving and fighting? Or are they only happy when they're making each other miserable?_  
  
Such questions had no answers, he knew. So instead of trying to solve the riddles, Pippin craned his neck to search for Merry, but he could see nothing to fore over the orc's head, and he hadn't the freedom to twist about for a glimpse behind. To either side, he saw naught but the iron helms and hideous, snarling faces of more orcs. A pang of loss settled in his stomach, but he firmly tried to crush it.   
  
_After all, I should be glad, shouldn't I, that maybe Merry isn't here? That he's missing this journey? Maybe he slipped off into the woods, and is making his way home… wherever that lies now!_ So he told himself, but it was hard to feel good about anything in such circumstances. Still, he did try, and ere he let himself slip away into dark dreams once again, he spared a thought for Sam and Frodo, hopefully safely across the river. _Safe! To think that I should call anything safe, and especially a walk into Mordor. But there you have it, they are safe… I hope!_   
  
With that, he slipped deeper into the recesses of his own mind, locked away in desperate memories of better days, forced down deeper and deeper by the pain that penetrated to the bone until oblivion claimed him.   
  
 The first inkling that Pippin had that anything had changed was the jarring impact with the ground. Groaning, he opened tired eyes to a forest of dirty, hard-muscled and iron-clad orc legs standing all about him.   
  
_Why have we stopped?_ The hobbit rolled onto his back and squinted at the sky, which was yet dark and gave no sign as to the time. His whole body ached, and his hands were numb from poor circulation, for the bonds were cruelly tight. Beside him, a soft moan sounded, and Pippin stiffened, glancing to his left to see Merry Brandybuck huddled on the ground beside him, looking as though he desperately wanted to be sick. "M-Merry? Are you all right?" he whispered hoarsely, afraid that his captors might hear.   
  
"As right as I can be… I guess!" Merry managed after a moment, offering a pathetic smile. A dirty bandage was wrapped about his head, and he truly looked a bit dazed still. "And you?"  
  
"Oh, I'm not so bad, myself," Pippin lied, making his voice as cheery as he could for the other's sake, though his heart sank. _So he didn't get away after all!_  
  
"What about the others?"   
  
"I don't know. The last I saw of them, they were fighting hard… I don't know… they may not have…." Just at that moment, an iron-shod foot kicked Pippin in the back, and the hobbit gasped, trying to roll away from the assault.   
  
"All right, vermin, shut your wide traps and listen!" An orc loomed over them, his scarred face set in a hideous scowl as he grated, "No talking, no whining, and no trying to escape! You'll do what you're told and hop to it if you know what's good for you! Otherwise…."   
  
"Ah, shut it, will you, you worthless goat!" came another harsh voice from near at hand. "You haven't got the guts for that sort of thing, even with orders! Bloody mountain folk got so much air between their ears it blows out their mouths every time they open 'em, but they couldn't take a _tark_ on a moonless night!"   
  
"Is that so, _snaga_?" the first orc hissed, and there came the ring of metal as a sword was drawn. "At least I didn't run all this way from Lugbúrz just ta take orders from an Isengarder that don't want nothing but these worthless half-grown slugs! They haven't got a bloody thing on them worth takin', 'less you count those pretty stickpins of theirs!"  
  
"I thought the orders were no spoiling!" the second voice grew softer and smooth as silk in anticipation of a fight.   
  
"I'm not one of your wretched kind, to balk at taking what's mine just because some higher up that can't even keep his own command tells me not to! Want me to show you one of those daggers?"  
  
"That's enough!" a new voice interjected, and the hobbits squirmed round to stare, for of a sudden the two antagonists fell utterly silent, and there was a general sense of unease as a large orc stalked forward, glaring. "Put your play things away! And you," the orc made a quick swipe and grabbed something out of the first orc's fist. Merry gasped, for he recognized the dagger as his own, and such was the discomfiture of the orcs that no one thought to kick him for the sound.  
  
"Are you brainless as well as spineless? Do you know what these are?!" With a hiss, he tossed the blade aside as if it burned, and he continued, "Those knives have killed your folk for generations, and you think you can carry one along in this troop? Not while I command!"  
  
"And how long will that be, pray tell?" someone else demanded with surly temper.   
  
"As long as the rest of you swine buckle down and keep your senses, because make no mistake: the horse boys will come riding for us, and you had best hope we don't leave you to them! Until we reach Isengard, we are all in danger here, but I won't come home empty-handed because a couple of worthless mountaineers don't know enough to leave well enough alone! Keep your hands to yourselves, and if I find out that either of those two is missing anything when we get to Isengard, you'll pay me in blood, understand?"  
  
"And who is to say we shall go to Isengard, Uglúk?" yet another orcish voice rose, and Pippin shivered, for although it was softer, it was more malignant.   
  
"That's what my orders say, and that's where I'm going, Grishnákh!" Uglúk snarled. "And any who know what's good for 'em'll follow straight off!"  
  
"Is that so? And what are those orders worth? The work of some ragtag wizard, they are! I serve the Great Eye, I and all who hold with me. We know where the true power is, and I say we cross the river and return to Mordor with these two."  
  
"Do as you like!" Uglúk sneered. "Stinking cowards, the lot of you! The Uruk-hai will see to this business, and as we took the prisoners, we'll bloody well keep right on taking 'em where we please. Off with you, if you're afraid, but tell the whiteskins hello! You'll not escape them, and you won't be able to take them alone."   
  
There were some more curses and jostling, but none offered any further resistance for the moment. The gathering broke up a bit, and the hobbits, who had lain very still, listening, began to breathe again, sensing that the immediate danger was past. Merry closed his eyes wearily, and Pippin felt his spirits sink.  
  
 _Isengard!_ He remembered it vaguely from the debates back in Rivendell, but in truth he knew not where it lay. _Somewhere in the Gap of Rohan, wherever that is. And does that mean, then, that we are in Rohan now, since they speak of riders and horsemen?_ Likely it did, and for some reason, that bothered Pippin greatly, inciting in him a feeling of utter displacement.   
  
_We are lost, Merry and I! Baggage misplaced and misclaimed. I only wish Strider and the others would come for us. But I don't even know if they're alive. I suppose my best hope is that this Grishnákh fellow won't take kindly to Uglúk's arrogance, and start a fight. Maybe they'd kill each other off, these orcs._ But given the threat of pursuit, that seemed unlikely, and the hobbit sighed softly in the darkness.   
  
Ere long, the orcs began to muster again, and Pippin was torn from his reflections by a slap across the face and the growled command: "Get up!"   
  
Cracking his eyes open, he saw Uglúk glaring down at him, and the orc drew a blade. For a moment, Pippin thought he meant to stab him, but the leader of the Uruk-hai only bent and cut the thongs binding his legs. "We've carried you far enough to get to the bottom of that blasted hill. Time you repaid us and learned to run yourself! Up, both of you!"   
  
He turned his attention to Merry, dragging him to his feet and giving him a hard shove forward, shaking his head when the hobbit stumbled and collapsed. "Best you learn to use your legs, swine, because orders or no, I'll lick you with this whip if you don't keep up! All right, move! All of you! Run, if you serve the Eye, or so help me I'll give you to the horse boys with my thanks!"  
  
Pippin staggered forward as the line began to move, and Merry struggled along at his side, both of them trying desperately to keep pace with their captors. White Hand and Red Eye, whatever their allegiance, the orcs ran swiftly and made no effort to keep a clean line. Indeed, Pippin had to swerve several times to avoid being crushed by orcs who were pushed out of place by their fellows, and Merry nearly collided with one once.   
  
But gradually, in spite of his general misery, Pippin began to notice that the emblem of Mordor, the Red Eye, seemed to have disappeared from the ranks. He dared not try to look back, but it was certain that before him and to either side, there were no soldiers out of the Dark Land, and he wondered at that. _Did they really leave? I would have thought that they would fight harder!_   
  
But for now, the mystery would have to wait, for he could spare no attention from the grueling march, and he grit his teeth and tried to shut his mind away from the agony. His breath came hard and ragged, all his muscles burned with exhaustion and pain, his vision swam and his head ached, and still, the road went on and on.   
  
The miles fell away behind them, and as the night wore away, the orcs swept onward towards Fangorn Forest.  
  


* * *

The hills were featureless under the darkened sky, for the moon above was but a sliver, shedding no light to guide them. Aragorn had known dark journeys before, and he did not worry over his ability to climb even this treacherous slope by feel alone, but he feared to lose the path of the orcs entirely. Already, it was difficult to read, and though he would have wagered his life that they were bound for Isengard, still, proof of that would have been welcome.   
  
_And there is also Gimli to think of, for he has not Legolas's eyes, nor my training,_ Aragorn reminded himself, glancing back over his shoulder for all the good that that did. It was too dark to see the Dwarf's silhouette, and only the sound of his breathing and the echoes of dislodged pebbles as they descended in his wake testified to his continued presence in their line. Behind and below him, Legolas brought up the rear in utter silence, and that too gave the Ranger cause for concern.   
  
Ordinarily, he would not have feared for Legolas at all, given the Elf's inborn, sure-footed grace, but he knew well that the Prince of Mirkwood suffered. His reaction to the funeral pyre, which had left him as one dazed for some minutes, was all out of proportion. Certainly, Legolas had been at a loss to explain it, though he had insisted afterward that he was well enough.  
  
Aragorn had no grounds to gainsay him, but he mistrusted that assurance beyond the obvious fact that the injury clearly pained Legolas, and resolved to watch him carefully in the days to come. As for the pain itself, that was only to be expected: they had not even bothered with a sling, knowing that soon enough they all would need use of their hands for this climb. Legolas had assured them that he would manage it, and indeed, he seemed to have found his way well enough while the daylight lasted, but as time wore on, his responses to their inquiries grew more curt. If he slipped now, no one would be able to help him, for they would not know anything was wrong until the Elf cried out in alarm. Turning his attention back to the path, Aragorn noted that the crest of the hill was not far above them, and hoped that no mishap would overtake them ere they reached it.   
  
_And I hope also that Merry and Pippin live still unscathed_ , the Ranger thought. It was, in some ways, a selfish hope, for so long as the hobbits lived, there was the risk that they might be made to speak of the Company's business, and that would be immediate disaster. Even should the three of them overtake their foes and somehow slip the hobbits free of their captors' claws, Aragorn knew full well that they could not hope to destroy all those who would have heard the tale from captives desperate for an end to torment.   
  
Yet though a pair of bodies so early in the chase would likely mean that the Fellowship's secrets remained untold, Aragorn could not bring himself to hope for such an end. And in truth, the risk was likely less than fear made it.   
  
_For what orc would seek out hobbits, unless ordered to do so? And if someone should take care to give such orders, then he must know what Frodo carries. Saruman and the Dark Lord both know, yet I doubt me they wish their orcs to hear aught of the rings of power,_ he thought grimly as he pulled himself at last onto the top of the ridge. Likely enough, then, Pippin and Merry were safe until they reached Isengard.   
  
Turning back along their path, he reached to give Gimli, who had managed to scramble onto the ledge beside him, a hand. Then both Man and Dwarf stood gazing down, hesitant, unwilling to offend Legolas with an offer of help, but worried nonetheless that their friend would not be able to manage the last part of the ascent. In the end, however, their fears proved groundless, for wounded or no, the Elf made his own way up the slope easily enough in spite of the hazards of the terrain.   
  
When at last he stood beside them, Aragorn gave him a long look, ere he turned to gaze out over the flatlands that spread below them, dimly revealed in a pale light. "Behold Rohan," he said then. "Would that the moon gave more light, for we might then see much upon the fields."   
  
"Whither shall we go?" Legolas asked, voice taut, whether with anxiety or strain, it was impossible to tell. "Shall we begin our descent now and in this place, or seek an easier path?"  
  
"In one thing only may we trust an orc, and that is that he will find the swiftest way down from these heights," Aragorn said wryly. "Come! The trail leads yonder, and then plunges into the ravine."  
  
"Is it wise to dare such a descent on so blind a night?" Gimli asked, and cast a significant glance at the Elf's back.   
  
"You need not fear for my safety, Master Dwarf," Legolas replied, discerning his friend's silent concern nonetheless. "But I shall be annoyed if you turn an ankle and force me to carry you!" At which Gimli snorted, and Aragorn grinned in the darkness, shaking his head.   
  
"Alas, I fear you must have taken a blow to the head in addition to an arrow to the back if you think I shall make any such careless error, Master Elf!" Gimli retorted, much relieved as well.  
  
"Come then, since we are agreed," Aragorn said, intervening ere the banter could continue, though in truth he found much comfort in the swift repartees. _So long as Legolas can turn an insult, he is safe to continue, I suppose._ "The night is still young enough, and we have far to run ere sunrise."   
  
"And with the sun, may there come also strength!" Gimli muttered. "It shall be a long chase."  
  
"Aye, it shall," Aragorn replied. "But we shall not let it deter us, and after a long chase, vengeance is the sweeter, however short-lived!" To that, neither Elf nor Dwarf responded, but they followed him without hesitation.   
  
As the night waned, and the dawnlight grew nearer, the three hunters wound their way towards the basin floor, knowing that there the race would begin in earnest.   
  
_And we dare not lose_ , the Ranger thought grimly, _for let the hobbits pass the gates of Isengard, and we are undone!_ So ran captainly concern, which was a thing apart from a friend's wrath, and as cold calculation struggled to solve the problem of how to reclaim hostages in time, grief and anger lengthened his stride. At the least, he would look on the pair again, if only to assure them a better end than any orc or turncoat wizard would give them. Thus resolved, he pressed onward, and Man, Elf, and Dwarf passed swiftly through the night.


	10. Hunters in Rohan

All through the night, by the dim light of moon and stars, the three hunters made their slow way down the slopes. By common consent, Aragorn led, while Legolas and Gimli followed more slowly. Finally, as the moon began to ride low indeed in the sky, the land began to slope less steeply. The plains were near at hand.  
  
 "What think you, Legolas?" Gimli murmured in an undertone, trying to keep his voice down so as not to disturb Aragorn's thoughts. For the Ranger had gone ahead and was now scouring the area for sign of the trail: the ground was hard, and tumbled boulders, set in place by some ancient deluge or river, made it difficult to trace the movements of even the most heavy-footed wanderer. Gimli stood leaning against one of these boulders to ease the weight of his pack, which now contained half of Legolas's belongings as well, and gazed east at the as yet dawnless sky. "Whither have the Orcs fled?"  
  
 "I know not," came the soft response from where Legolas squatted amid the stones, seeming one of them himself. "Our way is rocky, and the light is dim – the night lies thick upon the land, and I – I think there is little to find, though mayhap Aragorn shall surprise us." This last being said swiftly, and Gimli narrowed his eyes, frowning at the other under cover of darkness.  
  
 _That is not what he meant to say,_ he thought, but did not press the other. The climb had been hard upon the Elf, and he must surely be in pain, and have little care for any traces. And so Gimli merely grunted, growled:  
  
"Aragorn is long on the hunt, I have heard. But I think your first thought is in the right: our enemies have seemed too well aware of us from the start. It is as if they chose this route for the very purpose of throwing us from their tracks, though they cannot know that we still live." "But my friend, we did not slay all who opposed us. Some escaped, and doubtless they have told their comrades that we yet breathe." Legolas sighed. Gimli scowled, silently cursing their foes. But there was nothing they could do to undo what was done, and frankly, even had Mahal himself granted them a return to times past, the Dwarf had his doubts about the wisdom of facing that lethal circle of blades again.  
  
Which was an odd fear to have, considering that they were seeking just that in seeking Merry and Pippin. Beside him, Legolas let out a long, soft breath, and the Dwarf caught the glint of moonlight in the other's hair as the prince bowed his head.   
  
"What is it?" he demanded.  
  
"Nothing," Legolas replied, a little too distantly for Gimli's taste.   
  
For his part, Legolas bit his lip and very slowly, very carefully rubbed at his right shoulder, resting his injured arm in his lap to ease the dreadful ache. Intent upon the chase, he had refused the hampering sling, though Aragorn had warned him that the injury would be troublesome. After the long hours of scaling and then descending the hills nigh to Tol Brandir, the Prince of Mirkwood was reaping the ill rewards of chance and choice: his shoulder and back throbbed steadily.  
  
But the Elf had the endurance of the Eldar race, and beyond that, he had his pride. He would not complain unduly, and so as they waited, he took advantage of the delay to calm his spirit, to isolate the pain and set it, carefully enshrouded in layers of Elvish self-control, into a dark corner of his mind where he could ignore it for a time.   
  
Yet it would not remain there, and he cursed his youth, for among Elves, he was young, and had not yet as great a mastery of himself as some others had. It vexed him, for he was not one to be felled easily, surely, and he thought he ought to suffer less from injury than he did. Yet pain intruded when it ought not to, and dimmed his senses so that he felt as though the dark were thicker than it ought to be.  
  
 _'Tis naught but a scratch!_ he told himself, not for the first time, irritated by his own preoccupation with his misfortune.   
  
"Legolas?" Gimli's voice jarred him out of his unhappy reverie.   
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I said do you see aught at all in the night? If you are right that the Orcs know we live, they may wish to rectify their error, and Aragorn is intent upon the trail."  
  
Legolas was silent for a time, listening to the land, but even as sight seemed dim, he felt as though there were a strange silence about them. He shook his head sharply. _What is the matter with me?_ he wondered.   
  
"It seems empty to me," he said at length. And aware despite his weariness and pain, and the strange weakness of his senses, of Gimli growing concerned, felt moved to add: "Truly, though, I wonder that you should ask my opinion in this matter. 'Tis dark as the earth. I should think a Dwarf, being closer to the ground and accustomed to darkness, would see better than an Elf tracks left among rocks. Or has weariness blurred your sight?"  
  
As hoped, this immediately turned the Dwarf back on himself.   
  
"I am no more weary than you!" Gimli objected, unobtrusively gliding away from the rock he had stood against. "Elves! Perhaps I am weary to ask of one a serious answer, for if a thing be not green, they cannot fathom it. Paint a forest red, and they would be at a loss indeed!"  
  
Legolas smiled slightly, and opened his mouth to reply to that outrageous jibe when Aragorn called from some distance away: "Legolas! Gimli!"   
  
Their own concerns forgotten in an instant, the two of them hastened to where their companion stood, Gimli wending his way among the boulders while Legolas, with a soft grunt happily lost on the Dwarf, sprang up onto a stone and then went swiftly from rock to rock. Shortly, both stood before (and in Legolas's case, above) the Ranger.   
  
"You have found something?" Gimli demanded.   
  
"Aye," Aragorn answered. "A poor trail it is, but it seems that the orcs paused here for a time. And see, they have left a token!" Their guide held up a dagger whose sheath gleamed softly in the moon- and starlight. Gimli, being a Dwarf, quickly placed the craftsmanship even in the dim light and sucked in a sharp breath, while Legolas reached down to take the knife from Aragorn's hands. Running long fingers over the damasked sheath, he turned troubled eyes on the Ranger ere he handed it back. "And what do you think has happened to the bearer of this blade?" he asked.  
  
"That I cannot say, though I have seen no blood, orcish or otherwise," Aragorn replied. "What has happened to the mate of this dagger I also know not, but I would guess that this was not a welcome trophy: those who crafted them worked their hatred of all Mordor's creatures into the steel. To keep such a blade would be dangerous, and already they face a journey through enemy lands."  
  
"And whither do go they now?" Gimli asked, clearly eager to continue with this new finding.  
  
"Northwest, though it is too early to say whether they intend to reach the forest first or to try to cut directly across Rohan," Aragorn replied, turning his face towards the northern horizon. "In any case, they did not tarry long, and neither shall we. Come, let us go!"   
  
So saying, he thrust the sheathed dagger into his belt just behind Andúril and then picked up the trail again, Legolas and Gimli following in his wake.   
  


* * *

  
Down through the rock-strewn ravine they ran, weaving through the boulders, following a small rivulet until of a sudden, they emerged onto the green plains of Rohan just as the sun began to rise. There, the Orc trail grew once more prominent, trampling wantonly upon the short grass. "Now we may gain some ground!" Gimli said, with a note of fierce, eager determination in his deep voice. Aragorn said nothing, only gave a sharp nod and broke into a run, leaving the others to keep up with him as best they could. But for all his long stride, Dwarf and Elf remained ever on his heels, though Gimli had to toil the harder for his shorter stature. Hours they kept to the trail in swift pursuit, and grateful were they for the waybread of Lórien.   
  
For while the sun followed its arc across the sky, they did not pause, though Gimli and Aragorn glanced often back at Legolas, who either did not notice or else ignored their concern. In either case, the Elf asked for nothing, and if he suffered, he did so in silence. The day wore on, and the trio continued their dogged chase, with Aragorn ever at the point. The Ranger's keen eyes scanned the trail, and, well-schooled in such chases, he interpreted the signs more or less habitually, while grief and worry and anger churned within his heart, spurring him onward. And as he ran, he began to notice that the path widened considerably, though in the confused mass of footprints, it was impossible to discern any reason for the change of formation.   
  
It was late in the afternoon, and their shadows were lengthening behind them, when at last Aragorn called a halt. Gimli and Legolas, hoods drawn up and heads bowed to protect their eyes from the slanting shafts of sunlight, drew to a stop, Legolas a little unsteadily, and they looked up to see what the trouble was. It needed no second glance to discover the reason for the Ranger's grim command: before them, the trail branched into two separate paths, one holding course north northwest, the other breaking off sharply to the east.   
  
Legolas, blinking sun and strange shadow from his eyes, glanced bewildered from the new trail to Gimli and thence to Aragorn, noting the taut, carefully expressionless mask that the latter wore to conceal his frustrated dread. Gimli was scowling fiercely as only a Dwarf could who had lost a friend to Mordor's malice and then run without rest through the night and most of the next day. For his part, the elven prince felt his heart sink, and the world, which had seemed to him strangely colorless all this day, seemed to fade into grey... "Which way shall we take?" Gimli's voice broke the spell, and Legolas forced himself back to the matter at hand, firmly quelling the pricklings of alarm. "Yonder eastward track, or the straight path north?" For awhile, Aragorn did not answer. Describing a brief circuit around the area just prior to the break in the path, he sought something – some clue, no matter how small or confused – to guide him, but at no point in his compass did he see anything but a mass of crossing and recrossing orc prints. Turning, he gazed after the northward path a ways, then sighted along the eastward one, but again, there were no clues within his long sight that might indicate which group had taken the hobbits with it. _Or perhaps they split them up, and each company took a prisoner with it_ he thought, grimly. _If that is so, then we are doomed indeed, unless Gondor's soldiery can save us to the east. For I have naught but instinct and conjecture to rely upon now, and neither is certain enough for me to decide wisely in this instance!_ "I fear that there is nothing to see that would guide us," said he reluctantly. "Orcs go heavily, and they have little discipline in a line. I cannot make out even a single print that might belong to something other than an orc." "But we cannot stop here! Surely there must be _something,_ " Gimli pressed, racking his mind and memory for anything that would serve them. But though he had faced his share of orcish raiding parties on trade-runs along the Iron Triangle that held Erebor linked to the Iron Hills and Dale, his own experience of orcs failed him in this instant, and he was forced to wait while Aragorn considered anew the possibilities. The Ranger frowned, bowing his head, and he stared down at the tracks, mind racing as he considered the awful choice. _If I choose wrongly, then there shall be no opportunity to amend the error,_ he thought unhappily. _And though sometimes I doubt me whether the hobbits have learned aught of the true nature and danger of this quest, still, they know too much, do Merry and Pippin. And they are my friends!_ Which fact only increased his anguish over the looming decision that had fallen unexpectedly into his lap. _Ere this very hour, I would have said they were Isengard-bound, but now…?_ "There is no sign of a quarrel," said he, seeming to his companions to think aloud. "It is as if one group of orcs, and doubtless those of the Red Eye, simply left the company and pursued its own course homeward. If the Isengarders did not contest the parting, as seems evident, then I guess that they permitted it." "But what does such speculation mean?" Gimli demanded, chewing on his mustaches in nervous, frustrated impatience. "To me it says either that this was planned beforehand, or else that the Isengard commander retained control, and perhaps felt he did not need or want the orcs of Mordor to remain with his company. And if the latter is true, then that makes it likely that he kept control of the prisoners as well. For though it is not impossible that they have separated Merry and Pippin, I tend to doubt that any group of orcs would surrender a prize even – or perhaps especially! – to another company of orcs. Not short of explicit orders from a higher authority that both companies were bound to respect." "But we know not that they were not given such orders," Legolas replied, quietly. "No, we do not. But," said Aragorn, his grey eyes narrowing as he reasoned the matter, "recall Gandalf's tale. Saruman would not lightly surrender hobbits to Mordor, not ere he had seen them himself, and knew what they could tell. He would have instructed his company to ensure such did not occur, and see? The trail leading east is a smaller company, to judge by the two sets of tracks. Had the servants of Mordor insisted on taking the hobbits, it would not have been beyond the Isengard company to destroy them, and simply take the hobbits by force." "That seems a risk. Would not the Dark Lord wonder what had become of his orcs, had that happened?" Gimli asked. "Why should he? This is Rohan, a land that harbors no love for the orcs of Mordor over their raids of the horse herds," Aragorn argued. "East beyond these plains lies Anórien, where Gondor's border forces keep watch. The orcs of Mordor have lagged behind the Isengarders all this day. If they went missing, it would not be difficult to explain away. As for the orcs, it is not rare among them for quarrels and rivalry to divide them; rivalries among company commanders would not seem strange. If Saruman's orcs insisted – as well they could – upon keeping both Merry and Pippin, those of the Dark Lord might well bow to their strength and count upon their report to poison Saruman's reception. True treachery might not be so evident, or even were it, they might not contest it without the strength to enforce their will." "Then shall we continue northwards?" Gimli asked, reluctant to accept such reasoning, but unable to better it. And as it was not the Dwarvish custom to dwell overlong upon dead-ends, he looked now only for a decision to follow. "Yes," Aragorn said slowly. "Yes, we shall. We cannot in any case remain here." And so the matter was settled, and the three hunters sprang away again, continuing upon their northward course and none looked back.   
  


* * *

  
By nightfall, they had covered another two leagues, and still they ran onward, driven by fear that would not abate. But even the hardiest of Rangers will tire eventually, and a wounded Elf and toiling Dwarf, too, must rest. Since the moon rose late, by unspoken accord, the three companions slowed and then came to a halt. Gimli sank to his haunches to relieve his aching back, and Legolas gritted his teeth against pain, for despite the salve that Aragorn had used, even soft bandages chafed. Sweat stang in the open cut, and injured muscle protested such use as he had put it to since yesterday. And perhaps it was the blood pounding in his head, perhaps it was simply weakness, but he felt unsteady, disoriented – as if thrown about in a strong wind among the treetops, and he dropped to one knee and stayed there, dizzied. "I think we can run no farther tonight," Aragorn said, voicing the thought that they all shared. Still, he stood gazing after the trail for a time ere he shook his head in seeming self-disgust and joined his companions upon the ground. As far as they had come, he knew that he had not reached his limits, not yet, and so his present weariness puzzled him. _I am not truly tired,_ he thought, feeling nervous energy skitter along his nerves and flow like muted lightening in his veins. _Not as I have been before, when it was bone-deep and inescapable. Fatigued, perhaps, is a better word, but even so… there is something unnatural in this!_ So he thought, but said nothing, unwilling to say too much and in ignorance, but seeing Legolas crouching upon the earth, his head bowed like a beaten horse, did nothing to soothe suspicion. Going then to the Elf, he unslung his pack and began seeking his satchel.   
  
"We have come far today," he said, by way of placating princely elven dignity; "Let us see how my patch-work has fared!" But for a wonder – an uneasy, worrisome wonder – such placation was unnecessary. After a moment, Legolas wearily settled, and lifted a hand, acquiescing. The Ranger bit his tongue against comment, lest he worry Gimli as well, but if ever he had needed a sign that all was not well with Legolas, he had it and did not like it very well at all.   
  
_Does he see it? Feel it? Does he know what the Song of the World says now?_ he wondered, but would not ask. Some things were best left perhaps unknown...   
  
While Aragorn examined the Elf, Gimli rose and stalked a few paces away, watching the darkness intently as he stretched. He doubted there was anything to be seen, for the plains were broad and level, and they had seen no sign of any living creature all that day. But habit was a powerful impetus in uncertain times, and the Dwarf felt himself in need of space to think.   
  
For it bothered him more than he would have guessed that Legolad had been injured. _Ridiculous to think that it would not – we are companions in this quest – but surely I ought to be more concerned for Merry and Pippin. Or Frodo and Samwise! Or Boromir, Mahal rest him!_ Yet though he was hardly squeamish, he would not look on Legolas while Aragorn tended him. There was something… _wrong_ with the notion and reminder that Legolas could be as vulnerable as any of them.   
  
_Indecent, almost,_ the Dwarf decided. _Yes, 'tis indecent!_ Not that Elves could not be wounded or killed – the long, deep feud between Elves and Dwarves had made that plain. That ancient enmity had shaped so many, Gimli not least of all. That he had once looked to pierce the other's remove and flay him to the quick, legacy of generations of anger, now shamed him, and the reminder that Legolas was vulnerable as all of them to such petty things as arrows was unwelcome. Bad enough to watch the other suffer through the hunt by day! And so he looked away, avoiding the light cast by the candle Aragorn had spared for his task, and waited for the Ranger to finish. Finally, Aragorn sighed and said, "Dawn is still many hours hence, and though I doubt we shall meet with any trouble this night, let us set the watch nonetheless." Gimli nodded, hearing the rustle of cloth as the Elf quickly pulled his shirt back on, and he rejoined his companions to settle the watch schedule. This they did by candlelight, according to ancient tradition: Aragorn snagged three blades of grass and held them in his fist while Legolas and Gimli drew, and then all compared them by candlelight. As luck would have it, the Dwarf lost. "Well, use my misfortune to your profit then!" he grumbled, reaching to snuff their little flame between thumb and forefinger, and then sighed. "Rest well, my friends." "Wake me in two hours, Gimli," Aragorn replied simply, wrapping himself in his cloak and pillowing his head on an arm. Almost immediately, he was unconscious, for a Ranger learned early to take what sleep he could find, where and when he could find the time for it. "Good night," said Legolas quietly, settling carefully on his side out of respect for his sore back. "Good night to you both," Gimli responded softly and set himself down a little ways distant, not truly displeased, despite his weariness, to take the first watch. There was, after all, nothing like a lonely stint of guard duty to spur reflection, and he felt a need of it as he seldom had in his life. Not that Gloín's son was unreflective, but usually he had so many other tasks to accomplish, and his mind was ever occupied with matters of craft. Worry was an unaccustomed bedfellow, and when it came calling, he was careful heed it. Not that he had ever thought, prior to this journey, to worry over an injured Elf or kidnapped hobbits. _Or over the humanity of a Man_ , Gimli added with silent and troubled remorse, recalling Boromir's words to him in Lothlórien. He shuddered, haunted by the memory of the absolute self-revulsion that had crossed Boromir's face when the spell of the Ring had finally been broken by Frodo's horrified stare. No one should ever be made to face himself thus! _Alas, Boromir, what darkness was within, that you fell so far and then paid so dearly for redemption?_ he wondered. Gimli was more accustomed to dealings with Men than was a Wood-Elf, and he had his suspicions on that account, but ultimately there were limits to his understanding of a man like Boromir. And though Boromir had been alive only hours ago, yesterday in fact, Gimli felt a sense of terrible remove from their departed friend. It was tragic, it was the fate of all things mortal, and the Dwarf cursed softly in the night. Time was wearing hard upon them all, and he feared what it might bring. Behind him, he heard Aragorn mutter something in his sleep and shift restlessly, but the Ranger did not wake. _I wonder,_ he mused, _what dreams visit him tonight? Boromir's death struck him hard, and that after Gandalf's death._ Which meant that he would need to be mindful of their guide's mood, all the more so if Legolas were distracted. Though if he could not wholly compass even Boromir, how he should judge the Heir of Isildur, whose mood had admittedly been odd since Lórien, was beyond him. But no matter, they were bound together, and so he must somehow find a measure... Such were the mysteries that preoccupied the Dwarf's mind as the cold night hours crept slowly and silently by – indeed, the more slowly for the silence, which, after a while, began to weigh upon him as even darkness did not. _Nothing stirs,_ he thought, wonderingly, and felt his hackles rise a bit. _Nothing sounds. No beast, no bat, no tree – not that there are any here – no river's rush, nor even the rustle of grass in the wind. 'Tis more silent than the tomb!_ An ill-thought, that. Wishing vainly for dawn, the Dwarf stared out at the horizon, unable to pick the land from the sky, and he sent his prayer out into the night: _Be well, Merry and Pippin! We come for you!_  
  


* * *

  
  _Running… always running, and yet never could he draw away from that which pursued him. From what surrounded him, in truth – Darkness! Darkness unrelieved and unending, a hungry night. From somewhere in that deadly shade, another called to him, called his name, desperate, frightened, falling away: "Aragorn!"  
  
_ Who calls? _Shadows swam dark between him and a dim outline of a figure, and the voice came as an eddy in that spreading night:  
  
"Is your sight grown dim so soon? Then listen! My love, heed me and leave me not – Aragorn! Aragorn, do not lie down in the darkness! **Aragorn!** "  
  
"Arwen!" – _  
  
 – Aragorn woke quite suddenly with Arwen's name on his lips, and he could feel his heart hammering against his ribcage in a panicky succession. Something retreated from his side, and the Ranger grasped the hilt of his sword as he sat bolt upright, tense and momentarily confused. "Aragorn?" Gimli's voice drifted worriedly out of the darkness, and after a second, the Ranger relaxed somewhat.   
  
"Gimli," he breathed, releasing Andúril. "What is it?"   
  
"Naught, but you are due for your watch, and I must get some sleep if I am to run tomorrow," the Dwarf responded in a low voice.   
  
"Of course. Go ahead then, I've the watch in hand. Rest well," the Ranger said, pulling his cloak close about him as he rose. Gimli said nothing in response and after a few moments, he lay slumbering near Legolas, curled up on his side in the dim moonlight.   
  
For his part, Aragorn stood watching the pair for a moment, then he exhaled slowly and turned away, troubled, for the dread of his dream lingered like an unwanted guest.   
  
_There is no foresight in this,_ he told himself, but for once, that brought him no comfort. Hindsight could be as painful, after all, if not worse, for there was no avoiding what had happened already. _And since that is so,_ he told himself, _think no more of it! Think of what is to come – of what must come, if there is to be any hope for any of us. Think how it must go with Merry and Pippin._   
  
Unfortunately, there was little to think of in that regard. The hunt would unfold as it would, and on foot, against so many orcs, in Rohan, there were few choices for hunters to make. Either they would be spotted or they would not; either they would be able to steal the hobbits away or they would not. It depended upon the terrain, which alas, was against them in any endeavor, and especially in a close fight.   
  
And so after a time, thought worked its way back to all that had transpired already, and as in dreams, so in memory, he found himself caught between the night of Moria and Lórien, between the dead and the dying.   
  
_Arwen..._ Longing welled up like a spring from the earth, was as swiftly rebuked. _What good has that brought her? If you would do right by her, then since the Straight Path is now closed to her, find a way for her to live in this world!_   
  
A part of him knew well that such a task was beyond his power. The world was wider than one man's will, and the broken Song governed the destiny even of Elves and Powers – of all that lay within Arda's bounds, while between Arda and its beyond lay the realm of Mandos. Boromir had already crossed its threshold to join Gandalf among the shades, and who knew but that Merry and Pippin might soon join him, whatever one Aragorn son of Arathorn might do?  
  
 _I doubt not that they will have run through this night,_ he thought, feeling his wrath smoulder. _Alas, we cannot keep pace, and shall fall further behind unless the Orcs rest during the day._ Wearily, Aragorn tilted his head back, gazing up at the distant stars, at the Swordsman. _Ah, Boromir, can you see them from your new vantage point? Do you stand guard over them in the night!_  
  
So many a Ranger had prayed before him, calling on the lost to take up the Swordsman's watch, that _someone_ keep the heedless and helpless when the Road stretched too long. He thought of Halbarad, who threatened to invoke every ghost he knew to be Menelvagor for him.   
  
"You _will_ come home," his cousin would say, as if he could command it. _Would that it were so, cousin, for both our sakes,_ he thought fondly, missing him. It seemed of late he was doomed to miss many – Boromir, Gandalf, Merry, Pippin. Frodo and Sam. Halbarad. Arwen.   
  
Arwen. She had troubled his dreams since Lórien, those he could recall, but rarely did he see her in them. He felt her mostly – a presence like a warm shadow always maddeningly just beyond sight or touch. And sometimes she spoke, and other times was silent, but this was the first time she had cried out to him in fear and warning.   
  
Aragorn drew his cloak more closely about himself, though the chill that seized him came not from the night air. And his eye fell then upon the dim form of Legolas.   
  
The Elf had suffered on this journey, though Aragorn allowed that he had come through it thus far. Still, if he read the other rightly, then the Prince of Mirkwood was not wholly unaware that something was badly amiss. Legolas might lack the years that Arwen had, but the keen senses of the Elves must in time come to see and recognize their plight. One wound would cover and yet allow for another, and Legolas must feel the injury done Arda, even if he did not yet understand it.   
  
But so long as he did not, Aragorn would hold his peace, for what did such knowledge bring? Arwen looked back at him in horror in memory, and this time, he did shut his eyes and breathe deep against the rest of remembrance, against sorrow-laden love that nevertheless would not be denied no matter how untimely. A few moments he stood thus, ere shaking himself back to watchfulness, for he had an injured Elf to care for, and a deeply worried Dwarf, and four hobbits bound in different directions to keep ever in his thoughts.   
  
_And I have a watch to stand, and a course to consider, and I suppose that in spite of it all, I am not unhappy that it is thus._ Strange contentment, if contentment it was, and perhaps it was no more than the knowledge that matters might still be worse, though a part of him which sounded suspiciously like Arwen knew better:   
  
_If we can do naught but follow, whithersoever the trail leads, we must trust that of our efforts, something shall be born, though we know not what._   
  
Best, then, not to look too far ahead, nor behind – for the moment, they were here, and had yet the strength to continue on the hunt, and that, he thought, as he glanced over at his sleeping companions, would be enough for tomorrow. Legolas and Gimli slept on, oblivious to their guide's fierce, fond gaze.   
  
But when, some hours later, Aragorn woke Legolas, the Elf greeted him with a slight and unexpected smile, just visible in the moonlight, and laid a hand upon his shoulder. A moment they stood thus, and then the Ranger retired, his spirits much improved. And through the cold night, he dreamt no more.


	11. Encounters

Gimli was roused from his sleep by someone shaking him, and such was the tension of the preceding days that he instantly lashed out with the back of his fist. He hit air, which was perhaps fortunate, for as he rolled to his feet in a crouch, dark eyes fierce, he saw Aragorn kneeling nearby.

The Ranger had one hand on the ground behind him to support his sudden recoil, and his expression was a mixture of surprise, alarm, and amusement for such a vicious wakening. Beyond him, Legolas looked on with a slight smile, which eased Gimli's chagrin appreciably. __Anything to begin this day with less pain than the last!__

"Your pardon," the Dwarf muttered nevertheless as he straightened. Aragorn rose smoothly, shaking his head, and a smile played at the corners of his mouth.

"I think I shall let Legolas wake you tomorrow," he replied. "His reflexes are better than mine."

"You were not struck," the Elf pointed out. "I fear that if he knew I was to wake him, he might take aim rather than flailing blindly!"

"And if you cannot trouble yourself to duck a punch, then you shall deserve your bruises," Gimli retorted, pulling his pack onto his back just as the sun cleared the horizon. "Shall we tarry here longer?"

"Nay, for the road calls us ever onward," the Ranger said, instantly sobering. "Eat as you run – we have much ground to recover."

And so the three hunters took up the trail again. The vast, rolling plains of Rohan spread before them, and as the sun rose, its beams touched upon the beads of dew clinging to the grass and set them afire with a radiant, rainbow splendor. It was as if the fields of the Riddermark were covered in diamond dust, even as legendary Tirion, and the sky above was pale and cloudless as only a late winter's morn can be. Over the glittering green sward they ran, small figures between the vast emptiness of earth and sky.

So intent were they upon finding some trace of the hobbits amid the confusion of the Orcs' trampling, that the companions were almost heedless of the beauty, though even Aragorn could see nothing to help them. Yet sight is not all, and that sense of void, of utter isolation crowned with fragile and incomprehensible glory, touched on their thoughts, troubling their hearts as they held to their course with single-minded determination. Sometimes it waxed greater, and at other times that sense of absence was too ethereal to make itself known as such among the myriad stimuli of a morning's hard run; but it remained ever constant, present in their most unconscious thoughts, and its effects were not insensible.

Running in Aragorn's wake, the Dwarf bared his teeth, feeling his joints stiff from the nighttime chill. The prospect of another day on the hunt was not encouraging, but he thought of Merry and Pippin, driven to exhaustion and beyond by the cruel whips of the Orcs, and let his wrath fuel his legs. A Dwarf's fine sense of vengeance is unflagging in pursuit of its object, and for Glóin's son honor— _ _To say nothing of friendship!__ —would be satisfied only when that thirst for retribution was quenched in blood.

Dark were his thoughts beneath the bright sun, and as the miles stretched into leagues, and the leagues themselves seemed to grow ever longer, he threw the full weight of his will against exhaustion and struggled along, wishing just once for some of the height that his companions had. For if in the morning he had managed two strides for every one of Aragorn's, by the time the afternoon arrived, the proportion had risen to four to one, and Gimli was wondering whether Rangers ever in fact grew weary.

But that was not the reason that he dropped to the rear of their short line. For though he tired of the grueling pace, still, he could maintain it at need and had not yet reached the point of desperation. Not so Legolas, he suspected, for the Elf had fallen steadily back as the day progressed. And if Gimli had thought Elves other-worldly—even to the point of fault—he had never thought to see one who was wholly absent from his surroundings. Yet as they ran, the Dwarf had watched Legolas retreat from his initial weary good humor into a state not unlike that of a somnambulant, which was the more eerie for the fact that Elves routinely slept with their eyes wide open.

To Gimli's mind, Legolas spent too much time wandering in that elvish dreamland, and he was certain that such blank-faced preoccupation boded ill. Even in their brief pauses, the Elf had barely put two words together, opting to sit with his knees drawn up and his head bowed over them. Aragorn had spoken to the Elf in his native Sindarin during those rest periods, and had received uncharacteristically terse answers each time. But short of force, the Elf would not be restrained from continuing the hunt, and he would not be "coddled" (as he put it): thus when Aragorn returned to the chase, he was ever but a step behind.

__But concern is not the same as coddling__ _,_ Gimli thought, __and I should hope that he realizes that. Alas, I fear that such nuances escape him at the moment.__ That was why the Dwarf had let himself fall to the end of the line, to be certain that he could keep an eye on Thranduil's stubborn son, and prevent disaster should it strike from that quarter.

For though Legolas held his place in line, there seemed to the Dwarf's discerning eye a certain disharmony, a subtle disequilibrium to the Elf's movements that was unsettling. __Never before have I seen Legolas take a misstep, and it is not that he stumbles or staggers as we go, but…!__ Gimli scowled in concentration, then shook his head sharply. __I cannot put it into words, yet there is something wrong in the way that he moves now. Folly, perhaps, to think that anyone could move cleanly with such an injury, and yet I cannot accept that this is normal, even for so strange a being as an Elf!__

As the sun began to set, they came at last to the remains of an orcish campsite, and as Aragorn, weary but determined, began an exhaustive search of the ground, Gimli took the opportunity to sit down. __Another few hours, perhaps, and we shall be forced to halt once more. Forced!_ _ The Dwarf heaved a large sigh at that. __Even a Dwarf of the Lonely Mountain can scarce endure this march! And what of Legolas?__

In the half-light, the Elf sat some small distance away, legs crossed and hands laid palms up upon his knees. His face was drawn and his attention, as it had been since early that morning, was focused inward. __Or perhaps trapped__ _,_ Gimli thought uneasily. He did not know how to stir his friend from this grievous state, nor whether it would be wise to try. __I fear I still know little enough of Elves. Perhaps it is always thus when an Elf is hurt; perhaps Legolas needs his isolation to heal__ _._ But instinct continued to yammer at him, until, with a quick grimace, the Dwarf promised himself that he would seek Aragorn's counsel later that evening. Only mildly appeased, the voice of doubt ceased to babble, but it trailed wordless anxiety through Gimli's mind incessantly.

After a quarter of an hour, the Ranger loped over to join his companions, casting a sharp glance at Legolas ere he, too, lowered himself to the ground with a slight grimace.

"There is nothing to be seen, is there?" Gimli demanded in a low voice, and wondered why he tortured himself by asking. _ _If there were anything of note, we would know it by now.__ Yet he felt compelled to ask, perhaps in the hopes of drawing the Elf out of his dark dreams.

"I fear not," Aragorn replied, and the very neutrality of his voice was suspect, hinting at his own unreasonable disappointment. "Cavalry passed through this place earlier, and I would guess that the Orcs must by now be well aware of pursuit. How it shall end, I cannot say, but in another two days, we shall reach Fangorn, and tracking shall become more difficult. An Elf's eyes will aid us greatly there, however this ends," he added.

Legolas blinked at that, apparently having realized that he was called upon to speak, or at least acknowledge his companions. And despite the growing darkness, Gimli did not miss the confused weariness that passed over the Elf's fair face: just a flash of emotion, but enough to threaten his composure, for the prince hung his head quickly and seemed to gather himself ere he looked up again.

"Much may happen in two days," the Elf murmured.

"It may," Aragorn responded, pausing an instant, ere he suddenly switched to Sindarin once again, seeming to ask a question. " _ _Ranach khim, Legolas_?"_

"I am well enough. There is no point in asking before we halt for the night," Legolas replied, refusing the other's efforts to engage him in his own tongue. __At least I now know what Aragorn said__ _,_ Gimli thought, wondering at the Elf's refusal to let himself be treated this day, when he had been willing enough yesterday. __Why suffer unnecessarily?__ But Aragorn simply nodded and rose once more.

"Then let us use these hours well ere we rest!" Gimli's soft groan was lost in the wind as the three companions wearily pressed forward once more.

* * *

Stars sprawled overhead, studding the inky darkness, and the last glow of the pale crescent moon disappeared over the horizon. A breeze stirred, rushing across the plains to flow over the three companions, who had at last surrendered the day's hunt. Aragorn shivered in spite of himself, and paced quietly to warm himself. In truth, he would have liked nothing more than to collapse and sleep until dawn, but he had drawn the first watch that night, and discomfort all aside, his thoughts were too unsettled at the moment for him to rest.

__And the others are more weary than I__ _,_ he thought, stretching to ease tired muscles as he looked over at his companions. Elf and Dwarf were both asleep, and Gimli was huddled beneath his cloak with his hood drawn up for warmth. Aragorn could readily sympathize, for his clothes, after three days of running, were damp and clammy with his own sweat and the dew of the night did nothing to ease the pervasive chill.

Still, there was much to be grateful for on that account. Thus far, the weather had been unusually mild for February, but the Ranger remembered all too well the misery of winter in Rohan. __With or without snow, the windstorms upon the plains can brew quite suddenly, and then let the unwary traveler despair!__ Such storms, unimpeded upon the flats, gathered strength and speed the likes of which no one accustomed to Eriador's more hilly terrain could possibly imagine. The sharp, cold night breezes were hard enough to endure, but Aragorn did not relish the prospect of shepherding his friends through a windstorm.

Nevertheless, weather was the least of his concerns at the moment. Although there was no sign of either poison or infection, Legolas's wound still bled, for constant exertion would not allow it to begin to close. The bandages and salve helped to stop that flow, but as the hours wore on, such measures were increasingly less effective. And though it was not perilously deep, still, the cut was hardly shallow either, and the Elf was in constant pain as torn, abused muscles strained to bear weight and command movement that further damaged the tissues. The healer in Aragorn hated the thought of asking more of the Elf, but he knew also that Legolas was better able to bear up to such injury than either a Man or a Dwarf; to be perfectly honest, the Elf stood not yet in any real danger, physically. Had either he or Gimli been so wounded, they would certainly have fared worse, and been at greater risk of it festering.

__So we may in some sense count Legolas's misfortune as good luck, after a fashion,__ _,_ the Ranger thought humorlessly. At least they could continue together, and Aragorn need not worry overmuch about Legolas's physical recovery – that was a matter of time and proper rest of an injured body, frankly. It was not the arrow-wound that worried him at this point, but wounds of another sort that might in the end – which might not be so far distant – prove as crippling to heart and mind as a dagger to the lungs would cripple a man if it did not kill him. What would count as a death-blow to the spirit – that he did not know, perhaps could not, but he thought again of Moria, and of Arwen's face in the lamplight, and felt chilled.

As he stood in silent contemplation of the darkened land, he heard the distinctive sound of a Dwarf waking. For wounded or no, Legolas's movements were nearly noiseless, and the Ranger wondered what had roused Gimli from his rest a full four hours ere his watch began. But he said nothing, waiting for the Dwarf to approach, and sure enough, Gloín's son came to stand at his side.

"You should rest, my friend," Aragorn advised softly.

"I intend to," the Dwarf replied, "But I may not do so yet, for there is something I would ask you."

"About Legolas, I guess," the Ranger replied.

"I wished to be certain he was asleep ere we spoke," said Gimli, in tacit acknowledgement of his intuition. "All this day I have watched him, and yesterday as well, and I like not what I see, Aragorn. Discomfort and weariness have we all a share in; a short temper I might expect and understand; but this… this sleep-walking—that I cannot fathom!" The Dwarf shook his head in the darkness and sighed. "Tell me truly, what ails him? Is his wound more serious than you have said previously?"

"It is painful, and to set bone or stitches in that area of the body is difficult under the best of circumstances in the Wild," Aragorn said.

"Which, of course, these are not," Gimli hurried past the obvious, unwilling to let the Ranger side-track his inquiry. For though he doubted Aragorn would lie to him, the Man had a talent for misdirection that he had honed over the long decades of furtive service; if the news was ill, he might well try to keep it to himself for a time if not pressed hard for it. "But you know I mean otherwise than that. He walks like a ghost, Aragorn. I would not see him become one in truth!"

For awhile, there came no reply, which did little to ease Gimli's heart; clearly the Ranger was seeking the best way to say what must be said, and that worried him. Finally, though, Aragorn said, "The Eldar race is able to endure much hardship without wavering, and Legolas will endure for longer than either a Man or a Dwarf would. But I cannot close the wound, or prevent him from bleeding, Gimli, and though of itself the injury is not dangerous, our chase and exhaustion make it harder to bear. And I fear there are other peculiarities of Elves that must be watched."

"Such as?" Gimli demanded, impatiently.

At that, Aragorn sighed, glancing over his shoulder at the sleeping Elf, as if to reassure himself that Legolas slept still. "Think of the first time you were wounded in battle, Gimli, and recall the shock of that feeling. Do you remember how it was in the days afterward, seeing in that wound your own death waiting for you all untimely?"

Gimli's brows raised in consternation, then scowled into the darkness. "Aragorn," he murmured quietly, "do you tell me Legolas has never been wounded in battle before? I find that hard to believe. And even were it so, how is this then an elvish peculiarity? We have all of us tasted that fear and come through it in far less time, I might add. Tell me not that this comes of elvish longevity!"

"It does not, but then, I had not come to the peculiarities of Elves yet," Aragorn replied then, and Gimli grunted.

"My apologies. Say on," the Dwarf urged.

"The Eldar affect the land in which they live, as you will have noticed in Lórien and Rivendell, and if ever you visit Legolas in Mirkwood, you shall feel something of the power of the Elves at work in that realm as well. Everything that comes under their influence is subject to their shaping, in one way or another. We ourselves are changed by their presence, as I warned in Lothlórien," he said.

"But that bond between an Elf and his surroundings in turn lays him open to the land in ways mortals find hard to see or fathom: for the Elves are bound to Arda, and to all that is in it, much more strongly than is a Dwarf, and certainly more so than a Man or a hobbit." Aragorn gave an eloquent shrug. "While Middle-earth endures, so shall they, and they draw strength from it. In the beginning, when Arda was unstained, the Eldar were at the height of their powers."

"But what has this to do with Legolas's state?"

"Mayhap much. Middle-earth wanes, and so the Elves are lessened. And an Elf who is injured is dealt a wound on two levels, to body and soul. Legolas is young, born late into a world much weakened, and that is not without effect. Wounded, he suffers the unravelling of the __cuiniant__ more easily, more acutely than one older than he might."

"The unravelling of what again?" Gimli asked, scowling at the Sindarin interjection.

"It is an elvish word for which I have no ready translation, I fear, for Men have no need of it," Aragorn replied, and fell silent a moment. After some thoughtful consideration, he continued slowly, "I would say it is the unity of Legolas that is threatened, and an Elf unaccustomed to such disruption is in peril. Even as Men fear the loss of their lives, and taste in injuries received their own mortality, an Elf fears the loss of his integrity. If there were others of his kind with us, then Legolas might find great comfort in their presence and advice, but alas! He must face this alone."

Gimli pursed his lips in the darkness, considering this startling information, and after a long moment, he shook his head. "I fear I do not understand all of this. Can you not help him, since you are familiar with his condition?"

"I have tried to speak with him a few times this day, but he will not hear me. And but that he is alone among mortals, I would not presume to speak of such matters, for I am but a Man and my knowledge comes of observation and 'book-learning,' as they say in the Shire," Aragorn said heavily.

"Then is there naught that we can do for him?"

"If our presence and such encouragement as we are able to provide are not enough, then we can do little more than to stand by him."

"And watch him deteriorate?"

"Say not so, for he may find his own way through such divisions," the Ranger responded. "And in the mean time, do not lose hope. Even as Men and Dwarves have learned to overcome their fears, Legolas will learn to overcome this."

Gimli grunted, then startled himself by yawning hugely. "Well," he sighed tiredly, "I still cannot say that I understand this, but I shall do as you advise and hope nonetheless. Elves!" With that last exasperated, worried complaint, the Dwarf returned to his patch of grass and lay down again, huddling beneath his cloak. Sleep descended almost instantly, burying thought in layers of warm, soothing oblivion, and he knew no more.

Aragorn stood silently watching him, and his heart was troubled. __Well indeed that Gimli learns more of Elves if he wishes to pursue this friendship, but I cannot tell him all.__ For though what he had said was true enough, he feared that there was more to it than that, and that the Darkness under which they now lay had much more to do with Legolas's suffering than aught else. __Legolas, after all, is no unblooded lad, however young his people may account him_ ,_ he mused. _He knows well enough how to handle himself when wounded. But if the Song of the World sings now of inescapable Darkness..._ That might well make of any wound a danger beyond the hurt it could do to a body, and especially if Legolas could hear that Song clearly enough to understand its portent. He thought again of Arwen, saw her horror in his mind's eye, and knew he would not be the one to confront Legolas with the truth. Not when it cost so much.

But did he keep his silence in vain? Had the Elf yet perceived the deadly veil of malice that Aragorn had wakened to in Moria? Was that what his present daze meant? The Ranger did not know. _ _But he is an Elf, and so I doubt not that this evil affects him, though perhaps he does not recognize yet either its source or its extent. And Gimli yet has no inkling, I think.__

He sighed softly, turning his eyes heavenward, to where the Evening Star blazed brightly above the horizon. __How is it with you this night, my love?_ _ he wondered, and wondered whether he would ever have her answer.

* * *

Red rose the sun and dawn's light bled onto the plain as the three companions arose once more to toil. Silently they resumed their chase, and this time Gimli made certain to remain close at Legolas's back while the day lasted, however hard that labor. For though he knew not why, anticipation of a strange and dreadful sort murmured and sang in his blood, seeming to have kindled with the rising of the sun.

Thus did the long hours pass, and with them the plains: in the distance and growing ever larger, gentle, green-clad hills rose up, casting stark shadows upon the flat lands. The Orcs' trail seemed to curve about in order to pass right before their feet, then cut sharply back to the north for the forest eaves which showed now as a dark line upon the horizon.

And at intervals along the path, there were bodies: Orcs fallen in their tracks with goose-feathered arrows protruding from their backs.

"I knew not that the horse lords had bowmen," Gimli muttered, panting.

"Archery is an art among them, but on the field, the Rohirrim prefer their lances," Aragorn replied, squatting beside the body of a slain Orc as he gazed intently at the marks upon the ground. "Alas, I fear that if the riders did not bring this pack to heel, then there is no chance that we shall! We are more than a day behind them." He rose silently, glancing north after the trail ere he turned to the down at whose base they stood. "Come, let us go up and see what may be seen."

Single file as ever, Man, Elf and Dwarf climbed wearily to the crown of the hill. To Gimli's eyes, Legolas seemed unchanged from the day before: distant and pained, and he showed none of his usual enthusiasm for the prospect of climbing up to the heights. Indeed, he fairly __trudged_ ,_ if such a word could be used of an Elf. When at last they stood wearily at the top of the hill, they gazed out over the wide lands of Rohan, following the Orc trail as it ran north to the forest. And as they gazed, Gimli became aware that there were small figures moving upon it.

"Aragorn!" He pointed downward, and received a thoughtful nod in response.

"Riders," the Ranger said laconically. "A large company, and one that shall perhaps give us news of our quarry."

"Is that all that they shall give us?" the Dwarf asked, feeling at the curved edge of his double-bladed axe. Not that Gimli knew much of the Men of Rohan, but in principle he distrusted a people who worked so closely with such willful and dangerous beasts as horses.

"If we are careful, we shall have little to fear," the Ranger responded. "Well, we should not wait here in any case. Come, then!" And with that, they left the hill, though Gimli had to touch Legolas's arm and tug gently to rouse the Elf from his seeming-stupor. With a shake of his fair head and a slight frown, the Elf trailed along after Gimli, silent and grim. When they reached the foot of the hill, the three companions paused and on unspoken agreement, they settled themselves upon the grass, more than willing to rest from their day's labors.

"You are certain that these horse lords can be trusted?" Gimli asked after an uncomfortable few minutes of dead silence. "Did not Gandalf report that they pay the Dark Lord with horses?"

"Gandalf repeated only the rumor that Gwaihir had heard," Aragorn corrected. "And I doubt not that it is just that: a rumor, and an ill one. Boromir thought it nonsense, and I believe him, for I have spent some years among them. There are few things that the Rohirrim would less willingly part with than their steeds, even their lives. A fierce people, and a stubborn one, but honorable—I should think, Gimli, that a Dwarf would grow swiftly to love them."

"Hmmph!" the Dwarf grunted, but he nodded thoughtfully after a moment. "But will they learn to love a Dwarf? And what of Elves?"

"If they are wise, they shall leave us be," Legolas spoke suddenly, startling both his companions. "One does not touch the darkness!"

"What mean you by that?" Gimli asked, frowning, and to judge by Aragorn's intent gaze, he was not alone in his wonderment. But the Elf blinked and shook his head once more, seeming to emerge somewhat from his shell, and a look of muddled confusion crossed his face once again, as though he knew not what he had said. "Legolas?"

Turning his head to gaze at the Dwarf, the Prince of Mirkwood sighed softly. "Yes?"

"You… naught," Gimli replied heavily, dropping the subject. "It was but an ill-timed question, pay it no mind." Then, seeking desperately to prevent a retreat into that staring silence, he asked instead and quickly, "What think you of the Rohirrim, or have Thranduil's folk had any dealings with them?"

"Once, some time ago," Legolas replied, softly. "There was battle upon Calenardhon, and things went ill for Gondor. But when the Éorlingas came, the Elves of Mirkwood helped to drive the invaders from the plains."

"That was long ago indeed, my friend," Aragorn said, and seeing Gimli's skeptical look, added, "Cirion was the twelfth steward when the Éorlingas first came to our aid, and afterward, by their oaths, was Rohan created out of Gondor. Boromir's father, Denethor, is the twenty-sixth in the direct line of descent."

"Long ago indeed!" Gimli muttered, and Legolas gave a slight smile, though his eyes were distant.

"Not so very long, for I remember it," he said.

"And so also would Daín's grandfather, yet we say not that that was a short while ago, for all that it is within four generations!" Gimli retorted.

"Hush! Listen!" Aragorn interjected, and the two fell silent. For a time, the Dwarf strained his ears, but soon enough, the muted thunder of approaching cavalry came even to him. Legolas for once seemed quite intent, and the Dwarf wondered at that.

__Does he, too, distrust them in spite of Aragorn's reassurances? If so, at least he has still a care for his life!__ That might be a good sign, but Gimli had little attention to spare for the Elf, focused as he was upon the figures that swept over the plain, following the Orc trail south. Despite his absolute faith in their guide, he felt his muscles tense as that company bore down upon them, and he darted a surreptitious glance at Aragorn. Of the three of them, he alone seemed unconcerned for their safety, though there was in his keen eyes a sharp glitter that bespoke a fine-honed focus.

And well he might need it! In a blur of motion and sound, the Riders of Rohan flew by, silver and grey, gold and green as the sun glinted off of hair and hauberk, and glossy grey steeds. The thought of all of those trampling hooves did nothing to ease the Dwarf's tension, but he held his peace and his place, 'til of a sudden Aragorn stood and called out in a strange tongue to the last of the riders.

Cries floated back, rippling up that line to the head, and with a startling suddenness, the entire formation bent, swinging back about to surround the three companions in a moving circle of lances and iron-shod hooves. At last, the war-horses, obedient to their masters' command, halted, and Elf and Dwarf sat ill at ease before the lance points of the Rohirrim, watching as one of the riders detached himself from the press.

Tall he was, and from the crest of his helm flowed a white horse tail. Blue eyes the color of an autumn sky glinted as he considered the strangers, and his hair hung in two long braids down his back. After a moment, he spoke, using the same tongue that Aragorn had at first, but then quickly switching to Westron:

"Who are you, who walk in Rohan without the king's leave?"

"Strider I am called," said Aragorn. "Beside me are Gimli the Dwarf, Gloín's son, from the far kingdom of Erebor; and Legolas, prince of the elven realm of Mirkwood. And we walk without the king's leave, for we knew not that it was needed. But who asks?"

"Then you are late come to Rohan," the rider replied, fixing his hard stare upon the Ranger. "This past six-month have we required all to present themselves at Edoras for judgment. As for my name, I am Éomer, son of Éomund, and stand as the Third Marshal of the Mark. But whence came you, and how is it that you appear thus, seemingly from the earth? For we did not mark you as we rode, and I would have sworn an oath that naught that goes upon our fields could escape a Rider's attention."

"From the North are we come, and you marked us not for we go with the favor of the Lady of the Golden Woods." At that, murmurs sprang up, and Gimli stiffened, eyes darting about as he picked up the fear and ill-feeling contained in those whispered words. Beside him, Legolas seemed to recoil, but otherwise neither spoke nor moved.

Whether Éomer marked such reactions, Gimli did not know, but after a moment's consideration, the rider tossed his spear to a comrade and leapt down from his perch.

Drawing his sword, he advanced 'til Aragorn stood within easy reach. The Ranger did not flinch, nor move a muscle, only gazed back with equanimity, and even Gimli sensed the contest of their wills. But it was brief, and seemed born of wary curiosity rather than of animosity, and so the Dwarf remained still, waiting. At last, Éomer removed his helm, tucking it beneath one arm, and Gimli frowned thoughtfully, for the Third Marshal was younger than he had thought, now that he could see his face clearly.

"The Lady of the Golden Woods? So she exists in truth and not only in fables! Strange are the tales of that place… and strange, too, are your words and bearing, 'Strider,' for such a name is not meant for such a man, not if I be any judge of character." He bent his gaze upon the other, searchingly, then demanded: "How come you to associate yourself with the net-weavers and sorcerers of Dwimordene?" At that, Gimli felt a growl rise within him, hearing the suspicious note in the other's voice as he spoke of the Lady Galadriel and her folk.

But Aragorn answered calmly, "That is a long tale, but for your peace of mind, we mean no harm to any of Rohan's folk or beasts. We come rather in pursuit of a common foe: the Orcs whose trail you return upon took captive two of my friends, and we do but seek redress, and the return of those whom we love."

"That company was eighty strong," Éomer said, with a shake of his head. "They would not have feared so few, and you would have died ere ever you set eyes upon your friends—and that if you were fortunate! But we have slain the Orcs, and among them there are no others to be seen." That last was uttered in a harder tone of voice, and the Marshal's eyes narrowed. "Unless they are wizards themselves, then I must doubt your tale. Or perhaps there is more witchery at work? Come, tell me truly who you are, and whom you serve!"

"Isildur's Heir speaks no lies, Third Marshal," said Aragorn softly, and an excited, incredulous buzz of whispers sprang up instantly at his words. But he continued as if oblivious to them, speaking without ever taking his eyes from Éomer's face. And as he spoke, it seemed almost as if his voice cast a spell over the men, for they fell utterly silent as his voice gained in intensity and power. Elf and Dwarf stared up at their friend in wonder, for to them it seemed almost as if they had never known Aragorn before, so great was the change in him.

"Aragorn, son of Arathorn of the House of Elendil am I! I serve no man, but the servants of Sauron I pursue into whatever land they may go." With a flash, Andúril appeared in his hand, and bright gleamed that blade, as the Ranger continued, "Narsil was this blade called of old, and with the ending of this age, it has been reforged, as was foretold in ancient times. Now you are answered, Éomer, Marshal of the Riddermark, so declare yourself swiftly: where do you stand? At my side against orcish depredations, or will you stand against those who are Rohan's friends, and so serve the Enemy's purposes?"

There was a profound silence as all struggled to come to grips with these words, and no few looks cast wonderingly Êomer's way for the challenge in them, but Legolas the Elf caught his breath as he gazed at Aragorn. Almost elvish seemed Arathorn's son in that moment, and no part the rough and worried Ranger; indeed, to the Elf, caught within the snare of a shadow he could not escape, a clear light seemed to radiate from the other, if only briefly ere that fire was hidden once more.

Éomer, for his part, stood very still, as one who feels himself poised on a precipice and knows not yet which way to incline. But under the pressure of Aragorn's bright gaze, the Third Marshal bowed his head, stepping back almost involuntarily. As if that movement had broken the spell, another bout of murmurs erupted, all in a flurry of disbelieving, awe-struck Rohirric that neither Gimli nor Legolas could fathom. Their companion said naught, and if he understood the confused mass of voices, he did not let it show, remaining focused upon Éomer. At length, the Marshal held up a hand for silence, and spoke a few sharp words to his men, who ceased to speak quite suddenly.

"Strange words, my lord, but no stranger than others that I have heard of late," he said into the silence. The Man of Rohan bent his clear eyes upon Aragorn once more, then darted a swift glance at Gimli and Legolas ere he spoke once more, rapidly and sharply, in his own tongue, addressing the rider to whom he had given his spear. The man nodded, though he cast dark looks at Elf and Dwarf, and a doubtful one at Aragorn ere he and the others retired some four horse-lengths to sit upon the path.

Turning back to the companions, the Marshal jammed his sword, point first, into the earth and set the helm over the pommel. "Some things I would not speak of before my men," said he. "And though I would trust you, Aragorn, there are still many dark questions to be asked. Chief among them would be whence comes the horn that you bear?"

"You know Boromir of Minas Tirith, I see," Aragorn replied.

"I know of him, and I have seen him before," Éomer responded grimly. "And I know the history of that horn, so I ask again: how came you by it?" And Gimli, hearing the doubt in the other's voice, bristled on his friend's behalf.

"Not through murder, as you suspect," the Ranger replied with a tight smile. "But you guess correctly that Boromir is no more. The Orcs whom you have lately battled slew him beneath Tol Brandir."

Éomer sucked in a hissing breath at that and shook his fair head. "Ill news indeed! And I fear that those of Minas Tirith will grieve to receive it. Yet if the heir of Denethor traveled with you, then how came you to escape the Orcs?"

"As I said, the Orcs took captive two of our friends, and that seemed to be their objective for they broke away once they had them in hand. Boromir it was who bought our lives by destroying the archers, leaving us free to follow once the remaining Orcs were dealt with."

"Why should the Orcs wish to take two members of your party and leave the rest alive?"

"Now you touch upon matters that I may not speak of here, for there is no time to explain them," Aragorn replied.

At which, Éomer shook his head and grimaced, sighing heavily. "And again, I would believe you, for there is in your voice and face that which bespeaks honesty. But I may not break the law on such faith as is built upon ten minutes' acquaintance. If you will not come with me now, then it is the sword and that I would not see!"

"Nor would I," Aragorn responded. "But I may not abandon my quest while the slightest hope remains for our friends."

"But your hope has failed, for as I said, there were none but Orcs among the slain!"

"None that your eyes could see, for our friends wear the raiment of Lórien, even as we do. If you missed us upon the plains, beneath a bright sun, it is unlikely that you would have seen either of my friends under the dark eaves of Fangorn, were they in fact present. And that at least remains to be discovered."

"Sorcery again," the Marshal muttered. "It casts all into doubt once more!" He sighed. "I am sorry, Aragorn, for truly, I would trust you! But I am not my own master, for I serve Théoden King, and the law of the land requires me to take all strangers with me to Edoras."

"Then we are at an impasse, for I may not abandon my quest until it is proved quite fruitless."

"And I may not permit you to go free!"

"Stubborn indeed!" Gimli muttered, attracting a puzzled, somewhat suspicious look from Éomer. Quirking a heavy brow, the Dwarf demanded, "Is there indeed aught that would convince you to trust us?"

"I can think of nothing, short of your presence in Edoras."

"Then you shall have it!" As one, Aragorn, Gimli, and Éomer turned to stare at Legolas, who had risen and spoke at last. The Elf's glance darted swiftly from Gimli's face to Aragorn's, and went thence to settle upon Éomer. "If you were to have a hostage as a pledge of our conduct, would that be enough?"

"Legolas, are you daft!?" Gimli hissed, astonished and alarmed by this unexpected turn. Aragorn said naught, but gazed hard at the Elf.

"We tread the path of necessity," the elven prince replied simply, without looking away from the Marshal. "Come, Éomer of Rohan, what say you? Would my presence be sufficient to convince your king of our good faith?"

"It may… in any case, it would convince me. And if the king shares not my opinion, still, Aragorn and Gimli may have time enough to satisfy themselves that indeed their quest is finished." The Marshal glanced at Aragorn, seeming to ask what his thoughts were in this matter.

But before Aragorn could speak his mind, Gimli rounded fiercely on the Ranger and demanded, "Say not that you agree with this–this madness!"

"The Rohirrim have not the habit of mistreating those who stay beneath their roofs," Éomer interjected with some asperity. "It is in your hands to better or worsen his fate."

"And what mean you by that?" Gimli snapped, as Éomer laid his hand upon the hilts of his sword, seeming to suggest that the Dwarf would do well to say no further. At the same time, Legolas laid a hand upon his friend's shoulder, gripping hard in warning.

"Peace, Gimli!" the Elf said softly. "What choice have we? And though you have been careful to say nothing in the days since Boromir's death, I know well that I am of little use to you as I am. You shall not miss me, and at least thus I shall serve some purpose other than to slow you and give you cause to worry at night. Even when you believe me to be asleep!" the Elf said, which caused Gimli to dart a furtive, somewhat embarrassed glance at Aragorn, who spread his hands slightly as if to acknowledge that he, too, had been fooled. Elf and Dwarf stood gazing at each other, and Gimli's dark eyes were black with concern.

But Legolas only smiled slightly and shook his head, seeming to achieve a measure of much needed peace with that gesture and decision.

With a final squeeze, the Elf let fall his hand from Gimli's shoulder and stepped to one side, joining Éomer. "Good hunting!" he wished him, and then, turning to Aragorn, added, "Have an eye on the Dwarf. I fear that __he__ may hurt himself!"

"You—!" Gimli managed that much ere words failed him, and it helped not at all that both Éomer and Aragorn were all too clearly amused by his reaction.

"Come to Edoras as soon as you may," Éomer said, addressing first the Ranger and then his irate dwarven companion. "And if I cannot of myself condone it, at least I may speed your journey, for we have spare horses. Alas! Our victory was not without cost!"

"I am no rider," Gimli growled, and graciously forbore to add that even were he, he would rather have shaved his beard than accept a horse from Rohan when it held Legolas captive. __Even if the mad Elf is agreeable to this scheme!__

"Then you shall ride behind me," Aragorn replied firmly, ending the matter. "If nothing else, Gimli, a speedier journey will see Legolas released sooner." Which logic was difficult, if not impossible, to refute, but the Dwarf did not have to like it. Nevertheless, when Éomer had a horse, Hasufel, brought to them, he but glowered as Aragorn swung easily up into the saddle, ere Gimli grudgingly allowed himself be boosted onto the horse behind him.

"Fare well for a time, then," Éomer said, raising a hand in farewell. "May you find what you seek!"

"You have my thanks, Éomer," Aragorn replied. "Until Edoras!" At a word from the Ranger, the horse turned from the riders and sped away, carrying Ranger and Dwarf with him. Turning back, Gimli was astonished to see how swiftly the beast ran, for soon he could not even make out Legolas standing at Éomer's side.

__If only it will run so fast on the return journey, I may yet grow to like horses. Or at least a horse!__ the Dwarf thought, gritting his teeth as he clung to Aragorn's waist.

The afternoon passed and the miles fell away, and as the sun began to set, the forest eaves loomed tall and darkly forbidding before them. Aragorn spurred Hasufel on over a low rise, and the horse snorted, tossing its head as the scent of burnt wood and flesh filled the air.

As they broke through the brush and into a clearing, the Ranger brought his mount to a halt, guiding the horse by subtle pressure of his knees to turn round so he could get a clear look at the surrounding space. Smoke rose still from the ashes that lay cooling upon the earth, and grim weapons were piled carefully upon the ground. The last rays of the sun shone dully through gaps in the leafy canopy, and Gimli, who was at home in the deep and closed places of the earth, felt almost claustrophobically aware of the trees that grew close-pressed all about them. Indeed, they seemed to bend inward, as if to trap the brash mortals, and the Dwarf shuddered. Aragorn murmured something in Sindarin that sounded for all the world like a prayer, and shook his dark head as he dismounted, warily surveying the woods.

An owl cried out mournfully as the sun set, and then took to wing, a shadow streaking through the dimly defined branches. All about them, the harsh caws of the crows were heard, and the air was laden with the smell of battle and death.

Thus did Fangorn Forest welcome its guests, and it was with uneasy hearts that Aragorn and Gimli settled themselves for a night beneath the trees.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

* __Ranach khim, Legolas?__ : Do you still wander, Legolas?

_**_ _ _cuiniant__ : 'life-bridge'. Trying to suggest the idea of body and soul being held together so as to support life.

I get my Sindarin from Ardalambion (put that into yahoo's search engine): good stuff, even if I doubt I'm doing this properly, even with such short sentences and words.


	12. The Forest for the Trees

Nightfall found the forest silent – silent, and chill, save where two figures huddled about a little flame.   
  
"It will be a cold night with so feeble a flame!" Aragorn glanced up at that muttered complaint, and he shook his head at the obvious suggestion contained therein.   
  
"No colder than others we have passed without light at all. The answer is still 'no,'" the Ranger countered, and wisely did not smile at the glower the Dwarf turned on him. From the moment they had arrived in Fangorn, the age-old dwarven prejudice against woodlands had reared its head, and the other's agitation would have been amusing but that Aragorn, too, was aware of a knot of dread in the pit of his stomach. He knew not precisely whence it came, but having survived the wilds of Eriador, Gondor, and Harad, he was not about to dismiss that feeling out of hand.   
  
_And I have heard too many strange tales of this forest for my peace of mind,_ he admitted. Were it not for Celeborn's words at their parting from Lórien, perhaps he might have given them less credence, but Aragorn could never doubt what he felt now: _There is something disquieting about Fangorn, though I know not what!_  
  
That was why he had forbidden the Dwarf to set his axe to any tree, and insisted upon the laborious and occasionally disgusting task of collecting fuel from the charnel fires of the Rohirrim. Gimli had grumbled against the restriction quite vocally—indeed, though they sat now before a fire, the Dwarf would, ever and anon, 'suggest' that they seek more abundant fuel for the night—but the Ranger paid such complaints little heed and refused to let them needle him, knowing full well the reasons for the other's black discontent. Since their parting with Legolas and Éomer, the Dwarf's temper had been grim indeed, which tended to make for an uneasy companionship. But Aragorn had known enough Dwarves to recognize the signs of one deeply worried on a friend's behalf, and so he was willing to accept at least some of the other's censure for his own part in the breaking of their trio.   
  
In truth, however, Legolas's offer, once made, could hardly have been overruled; it certainly could not have been retracted. That still would not have kept Aragorn from intervening, if only to warn, had he had less faith in Éomer and the Rohirrim, but there had been also in Legolas's voice a sense of relief and need beneath his determination that had stilled what cautions he might have made.   
  
_He needed to feel useful—to regain his balance, in all senses of the word. Well do I know that feeling_ , Aragorn thought, heaving an inward sigh. Every Ranger who walked the Wild came eventually to a moment and a place where his will to continue in what seemed a hopeless task was tested, and the worst testing came sometimes in strange guises. Some survived such; others did not. Aragorn was of two minds as to his own moment in Moria of late, for not since Morgoth's day, perhaps, had the Free Peoples of Middle-earth faced so terrible a fate and trial as this broken Song. _May you find in your captivity purpose enough to see you healed in body and mind, my friend,_ he wished Legolas, therefore.   
  
A creak, as of wood shifting, instantly drew the Ranger's attention from absent friends to the surrounding trees, and Gimli, too, glanced about uneasily, scowling. But there came no further alarm, and Dwarf and Man relaxed slightly.   
  
"You have been among these horse lords, Aragorn," Gimli said suddenly in a low voice. "Tell me, did Éomer speak true, that the Rohirrim do not harm their captives?"  
  
 "Legolas has the least to fear of the three of us," Aragorn said, frankly. "For his presence will be read as submission to the law of the land, as well as the guarantor of our honesty. But in any case, the Rohirrim are not cruel captors. They will hold him unharmed in Edoras, unless he harms one of the king's subjects, or we do ourselves."  
  
 Gimli grunted. "Such fine-honed points of honor!" he growled. "Can you be certain that they remain unblunted after so long an absence on your part and so hard a year on theirs?"  
  
 "All things change in Middle-earth," Aragorn admitted. "Still, I cannot see the Rohirrim allowing so old a custom to fade all in a day. It has been long since I rode with them, but I have passed through Rohan several times, and most recently just ere September of last year. Times were hard and fear was rampant, but other, less venerable tradition still lived, so I would guess that this one does as well. All of which aside, Éomer seems to me honest: I do not believe he would lie, even to save himself, and that does not surprise me, given his father."  
  
 "Hmmph!" Gimli snorted, but ere he could answer, there came again a rustling, scraping noise, as of something large and unwary moving, sounded just then, and Aragorn looked sharply left, hand going swiftly to the hilt of Andúril. For the sound continued on, and for some moments, then fell suddenly silent. On edge, the Ranger continued to gaze intently into the deep shadows, but he could see nothing and even his quick ears heard naught but the usual night sounds of a forest. Still suspicious but unable to find any immediate cause for his own alarm, he turned slowly back to the fire, and to Gimli, who relaxed only when Aragorn did.   
  
 "Cursed trees!" the Dwarf muttered. "I shall never understand what that Elf sees in them." A pause, followed by: "Why did he do it, Aragorn?" "I know not what put it into his head, but Legolas spoke truly: we had no choice, for Éomer had none."  
  
 "And you trust Éomer because you knew his father?"  
  
 "Yes."  
  
 "Even though the son has done naught to earn that trust?"  
  
 "Perhaps I should have said, I trust that Éomund's example and teaching were not wasted. Beyond that, Éomer is the cousin of Théodred, the king's only son, and all that I know and have heard tell of the heir to Rohan's throne tells me that he would not befriend one unworthy of friendship."  
  
 "But all of this is hear-say," Gimli said through clenched teeth.   
  
 "As was the story of Gandalf, and that of Frodo, Bilbo, Legolas, Elrond, Boromir and your father at the council," Aragorn countered, raising his brows. "At some point, one must yield to one's own judgment in matters of trust and belief. I–"   
  
A crackle, a harsh caw and the sound of madly flapping wings, as of a flight of doves or crows startled from cover broke out, and this time Aragorn did stand, advancing a few paces toward the trees with Andúril drawn and ready in his hand.   
  
Gimli marked where the Ranger's left hand strayed, toward the small of his back where another blade was strapped, and he reached for his axe. But an eerie feeling crept over him as his fingers touched the wood, and of a sudden, the Dwarf felt irresistibly warned against the notion of taking his weapon to hand. He knew not why, for it was hardly a reasonable feeling when danger seemed to threaten, but he obeyed the impulse, waiting until Aragorn, once again frustrated by the opaque darkness, returned to the flame-lit circle and seated himself.   
  
"Think you that this will continue all night?" he asked, unhappily.  
  
 "I know not," Aragorn replied, setting Andúril down unsheathed at his side. "Fangorn is a strange place whose secrets are untold. Once, forests such as this stretched the length of Eriador, and Elves and Men likely knew quite well what perils and wonders they contained. But in these days of forgetfulness, who can say what lies at the heart of Fangorn? Even Celeborn knows not, and he wandered the forests of Beleriand ere that land was broken and drowned."  
  
 "Some things are not meant to be known, perhaps," Gimli mused darkly, eyes flicking to the looming trees on either side. "Perhaps not." Dwarf and Man fell silent, listening to the sigh of the wind in the tree tops, and the occasional hoot of an owl. Hasufel snorted and swished his long tail, seeming alert but as yet unafraid, which Aragorn counted a good sign. The steeds of Rohan were bred for endurance but also for intelligence, and they were aware of many things that a Man might miss. So long as the great war-horse remained calm, likely there was little to be concerned about.   
  
_But horses do not count the unknown as dangerous_ , the Ranger mused. _And whether Gimli speaks truly or not, there are some things I would prefer never to know…_  
  
"Cursed trees," Gimli muttered then. A pause, then: "Though the orcs lie dead, something in this forest likes us not. Aragorn, how for Legolas if we cannot come to Edoras, as we promised?"  
  
Aragorn, who had been avoiding that point, in light of his companion's mood, hoping to be gone and well on the way to the court of the king ere the question could be raised, was careful not to let dismay show. He was therefore quick enough to answer, and as circumspect as he dared:  
  
"When I served, a hostage who gave no offense and did no harm would be kept. He might have been ransomed him to his father, even, if his compatriots did not reclaim him, and no harm came to any of the Éorlingas by their hands."  
  
Gimli stared at him a moment, ere he shook his head and growled: "A fine, Rangerly walkabout! What of _today_ , Aragorn? What will they do if this damnable forest takes us?"  
  
So for circumspection! _'Twas an ill-fated endeavor, no doubt,_ Aragorn told himself, but sighed inwardly. _Dwarves I have known, and I know them to be a tenacious folk, but if ever I thought to see one so troubled over the fate of an Elf, then let lightning strike!_ Forced to it, he admitted honestly:  
  
"I do not know." Gimli cursed softly under his breath. "He is well enough tonight," the Ranger continued, seeking to calm the other.   
  
"And tomorrow?"  
  
"Tomorrow will tell. Gimli – "  
  
"He's ransoming _us_! While I've breath in me, I will not fail to honor such a pledge, but in this place, who can guarantee that either of us will see daylight, or come again from these eaves?" Gimli looked up at the trees pressed close about, and shuddered, ere pinioning Aragorn with a dark and wrathful eye. "Something there is here that would drink the very life out of us. I do not fear death, but confound it, there is no peace in it since the daft Elf has put himself at the mercy of these Riders!"  
  
Aragorn raised a brow at that. "Peace in death is a rare gift in this world—will you hold Legolas to answer if it comes not to you?"  
  
"He should not have done it. We should not have _let_ him do it!"  
  
"We have covered this ground before: there was no choice. What would you have done? Won all of our deaths on the spears of the Rohirrim, and perhaps Merry's and Pippin's as well?" Aragorn demanded, and pressed on in the face of mounting dwarven anger to argue: "Moreover, you know he suffered, that he was not the equal of the hunt. That had he come here with us, he would have been more a hindrance than a help—mayhap even a danger, if indeed whatever moves in this night wishes us ill. Why, then, contest him?"  
  
"I would have my eye upon him."  
  
"Then you should have stayed with him," Aragorn said bluntly, dispensing with tact to add, ere Gimli could find words or blows to answer with: "But instead you honored his judgment, and for that, Merry and Pippin may yet be grateful. Be content! Or," he said, on sudden impulse, "if you find his wisdom still lacking when we come to Edoras, then claim your satisfaction for his having followed it and relieve him of whatever limb best pleases!"  
  
There followed a long silence, as Gimli stared at him, apparently having lost his tongue, and Aragorn gazed back in resolute challenge, wondering which way matters would tip now.   
  
But just when he had begun to fear that he might have misjudged his answer, Gimli began to laugh–a deep, basso chuckle that grew to such proportions that the Dwarf's whole frame shook with it. "Dúrin's… beard…! Relieve him... of what pleases! Hoya!" he gasped helplessly, and Aragorn, watching, had to bite his lip against sympathetic reaction, for though well-versed in methods for bolstering flagging spirits, he had not anticipated that a barbed jibe born of an instant's desperation would have such a… dramatic… effect. Likely it was but the sudden release of tension built over days—weeks, rather!—of hard and fear-filled travel, but still, it was welcome. At length, Gimli managed to contain himself and drew a deep, steadying breath. "Relieve him of whatever best pleases," he repeated, laughter still in his voice, and concluded, "Aye, that would be just!" He shook his head and snorted, which caused Hasufel to prick up his ears as if in appreciation. Possessed once more of himself, Gimli said then: "Your pardon, Aragorn, for my temper is not for you, but for this—" a gesture that encompassed at once the forest and, beyond that, the death throes of the Third Age "—and our own helplessness before it." "I know, else I would have spoken sooner," Aragorn answered, with a real if weary smile. "And given that my temper is only little better than yours, I fear my words would have been harsh!" Gimli sobered instantly, peering closely at the Man who sat across from him, and after a moment, he said, "No doubt. A long and hard hunt you have led these past days, my friend. Why do you not rest?" And since, despite his mistrust of the woods, that suggestion seemed the best he had heard in days, Aragorn answered: "If you will take the first watch, I shall not waste the time." "Then sleep! Laughter restores the soul, and even the body somewhat. A few hours of guard duty shall not seem such a chore now," Gimli said, standing and stretching ere he tugged his hood up against the cold. "Thank you," the Ranger sighed softly, and indeed, wasted no time at all. Within a few minutes, he slept soundly.   
  
Gimli gazed down at the other for a time, considering this stranger who had come to assume such a large place in his life, and who yet remained something of an enigma.  
  
 _There are times when I think him too elvish for his own good, and others when I marvel at him for what I suppose must be Boromir's elusive 'humanity,'_ the Dwarf thought. _Today, I have seen him as a king uncrowned who yet has a power over any other that I have known, but never did I think that he had enough dwarven blood in him to make me laugh so._ Shaking his head, Gimli turned to face the woods, as unease sank its teeth once more into him.   
  
_What manner of creature lurks beyond the firelight?_ he wondered. The strange noises that had disrupted their conversation thrice now were unlike any that he was accustomed to hear in a natural setting. _Short of a lightning storm, or the pines that burst upon the heights of Erebor in the depths of winter, that is_ , he reflected, musing on the matter. _But it is not so cold as that, and there is not a cloud in the sky_.   
  
With a glower and feeling uncomfortably vulnerable in the darkness, Gimli kicked another wood chip into the fire and watched the flames lick higher. Andúril gleamed bright, seeming made of flame itself as it reflected the ruddy light, and that stark reminder of their danger pulled the Dwarf's thoughts back to his odd unwillingness to handle his axe.   
  
_What stopped me at that moment? And why?_ he wondered. _If something were to approach, would I be able to protect us both?_ No sooner had he thought it than he dismissed the doubt. Of course he would, for it was ridiculous to think that he would permit any harm to come to either himself or Aragorn based on some vague fear of his own weapon. _And it is quiet now. Perhaps it was nothing…?_  
  
But 'nothing' rarely caused in a Ranger the almost skittish distrust that Aragorn had shown earlier, and Gimli drummed his fingers on his wide belt, pacing to take the edge off of his unease. Minutes slipped by, and if anything menacing roamed in the darkness, it gave no sign of its presence as the stars spun out their course overhead. Indeed, Gimli began to relax somewhat, to think that it was his own fearful concern for Legolas and weariness that made of present apprehensions more than they were.   
  
Which was why he almost missed it when it appeared. Behind him, Hasufel nickered softly, attracting his attention, and stamped, shaking his great head, ears twitching. Unfamiliar with the language of horses, Gimli eyed the beast skeptically, wondering what that meant, when movement caught his eye. Turning sharply to his left, he stared at the shadows, which seemed somehow to have grown _thicker._ Thicker… and the air was stiflingly heavy of a sudden, laden with must and earth it seemed. Still, the Dwarf frowned, for he saw naught… " _Tûrg Mahalu!_ " Gimli hissed, forgetting himself, but only for an instant. Then: "Aragorn!" In a flurry of motion, the Ranger roused, reflexively grasping the hilt of his sword as he sprang to his feet. But then he stilled, gazing about with wide wonder and no small alarm. For all about them the woods groaned and creaked, and though the darkness seemed to dim even their fire, still, he could see huge shapes moving in the shadows. Tall as trolls, and taller, even, they seemed to sway and glide through the night.   
  
Aragorn felt a shiver run down his back, struck by the feeling of unseen eyes watching him. Hasufel's frightened whinnies echoed in his ears, yet had no power to stir him in the face of this migration of who knew what creatures. How long the two of them stood there, watching in mute awe and fear, neither knew. But when at last the sounds faded into the distance and the air seemed to clear a bit, Aragorn pressed his left hand over his eyes, struggling to accept what he had seen—whatever it might have been!—and wishing vainly that his thoughts did not feel quite so muddled by fatigue. Hasufel's complaints eventually roused him, and he sheathed Andúril and went over to where the horse stood. Speaking soothing Rohirric in a low voice, he stroked the animal's neck and glanced over at Gimli, who was shaking his head in disbelief.   
  
"What was it, do you think?" the Dwarf asked, hoarsely. "I cannot hazard even a guess," Aragorn confessed, and sighed softly. "One thing is certain, I shall sleep no more tonight!" "Nor I," Gimli declared. "A plague upon this accursed place!" he muttered, tossing another bough onto the fire for good measure. Then he sat down before the tree, where Aragorn had been earlier, so that he could at least feel that he had something solid at his back as he watched the darkness. Once Hasufel had calmed—due in no small part to the encouragement of the few carrots that Aragorn had unearthed in the horse's saddlebags—the Ranger settled at his companion's side. The shade grew deep, but though naught else disturbed the night, they watched the forest and did not sleep.  
  


* * *

  
Morning sun kissed a hobbit's cheek, and Meriadoc Brandybuck stirred, tensing. Opening his eyes to mere slits, he searched his surroundings, expecting to see naught but Orcs. But instead, he saw the walls of a cave, and heard the rush and bubble of a stream, and there were no other creatures about. Unless it were a hobbit, for beside him lay Pippin, still curled up asleep and snoring faintly.   
  
_Wellinghall!_ Merry thought, and let out a sigh of relief as he sat up. Yesterday, they had still been among the Orcs, and he had difficulty accepting that he was free now, such was the power and horror of that memory. The hours of running had dragged on and on, 'til Merry had grown numb—numb to pain, numb to exhaustion, and he had moved only because if ever he stopped, he knew not whether he was alive or dead. When the riders had surrounded the Orcs in the forest, Merry had been beyond caring, almost, and but for the noise and clamor, he would have missed the battle entirely. _As it was, we almost smothered, Pippin and I,_ Merry recalled. For one of their captors had been cut down by an arrow, and his body had fallen upon the two of them, shielding them from hooves and swords and such like, but also threatening to crush the breath from them. _And I shouldn't have liked to die coughing bits of filthy orc hair. I think that, more than anything, let me wriggle out from under the brute, bound as I was!_   
  
He and Pippin had managed to writhe their awkward way into some bushes, where they had, against all odds, fallen asleep while the battle raged, and the Rohirrim had performed their funeral rites. When they had awakened, the battleground had been quite silent, and the scent of burnt bodies had filled the air as the two hobbits had once more wormed their way forward, seeking now a weapon with which to cut their bonds.   
  
As hunts went, Merry had known better, and he shivered slightly at the memory. _What a sight that was, that little space in the woods! I wish I could forget it!_ Granted, it had been somewhat gratifying to see Uglúk's head on a pole, but Merry decided he could have lived out his days peacefully without ever having seen the body of any living creature displayed in pieces for his appraisal. "Just keep moving," Pippin had encouraged him when Merry's wriggling efforts had ceased in horror. "Never mind the scenery, and don't think of what we're lying on, just keep going!"   
  
And so they had slithered and inched their way forward, groping for freedom. They never had found that blade—their bonds had been too tight, the weapons of their enemies too far distant, but in the end, it had not mattered. For just as the hobbits had reached the point of desperation, a sound like a deep horn had startled them, and the most extraordinary creature had appeared upon the field:   
  
"Hoom… what have we here? Two snakes? Two worms? What indeed?" A large, splay fingered hand had scooped each of the hobbits up and held them, amazed, before the face of a great, tree-like creature. Which was how they had eventually come to be striding through the forest, resting upon the shoulders of the strange being, who had called himself "Treebeard" and promised them shelter at someplace called "Wellinghall"... "And now we are here!" Merry said aloud, marveling at the fact. Beside him, a snort issued forth. "So we are, but must you announce it to the world? Some of us were sleeping," Pippin yawned as he woke, and then smiled to show that he meant naught by his complaints. "Good morning, cousin! Did you sleep well?" "Better than I have in a long while, thank you," Merry replied. "An Ent's hall is better than an orc's camp any day!" Both hobbits were silent awhile, gripped once more by the dread of those awful days on the march. And Merry looked about at the trees, trees everwhere, as far as he could see, and wondered aloud: "Do you think that we shall be able to find a way across Rohan to… to wherever it is that we must go?" "Who knows? Treebeard might help us there," Pippin replied. "But honestly, I don't know what we shall do next." "I just hope that the others are all right," Merry said somewhat anxiously. "Me too," Pippin said, hesitating ere he sighed and added, "Probably, though, they're dead. You saw all of those orcs! How could anyone escape them? We shall have to look to do our part without them, I suppose… whatever 'our part' might be, now that Frodo and Sam are gone too! I don't know whether it will amount to anything in the end, but I suppose we must try, if only to honor their memory." And Merry, listening to his friend's gloomy words, cocked his head at him, scrutinizing the other's face intently. "You have changed, Pippin, you know that?" "Well, so have you!" Pippin replied, looking away uncomfortably. "We all have, but you… it's different with you," Merry insisted. "You've grown… sterner, I would say. More gloomy at times, and more thoughtful." He paused, then said, "I think it suits you in a way. Even if I could do without your saying that Strider and the lot of them are dead now!" "I guess I've seen a few things since Moria, that is all," said the other with a tiny shrug. "That doesn't leave much room for jokes and the like. I don't know, Merry, whether I shall ever laugh the way I once did!" He shook his head, then looked up determinedly. "Well, let's not dwell on it. Let's see a bit more of this place!" With that, the hobbits scrambled off of the great table on which they had slept and poked about the grounds of Wellinghall. There were few wrought-items—none, in fact, save the jars of water and a ladle and cups—but somehow, that seemed to fit perfectly, and the hobbits felt themselves quite at home in fact. After so many days without a roof over their heads, perhaps almost anything would have done, but there was something comfortable about Treebeard's home.   
  
_As if it was made for him, and he for it,_ Merry thought. _Like hobbits to a hobbit hole!_ He and Pippin were watching a caterpillar work its way up the stem of a long shoot at the base of a tree when a great _hou-um!_ sounded, announcing the arrival the old Ent. Treebeard strode up with a speed that struck Merry as remarkably out of place in a creature whose motto was "Don't be hasty!" But the Ent seemed in good enough humor. "Well, my fine fellows, I see you are awake at last! Did you sleep long?" "Yes, and quite well, thank you," Merry replied. "And you, Treebeard? Have you been gone for long?" "Hmmm… no, not for long. Not, that is, for an Ent. Even a century is hardly long to us!" Treebeard replied, going to one of the jars and dipping himself some water. "But perhaps to you folk, it would seem long, for I have been up and about since before the sun rose, for I had much to think about and to do." "Where did you go, then?" Pippin asked, breaking out a wafer of waybread that, miraculously, had not been crushed. "Back to the battlefield where I found you, for I wished to think, and to think about dark things, and for that I often need… hmmm… encouragement. Is that the word? It is best to see what one thinks of, in any case. But I left not long after you fell asleep, and well that I did, for it is much work to summon an entmoot." "An entmoot? What is that?" Merry asked, frowning. "A gathering of Ents, no more and no less. Such a thing has not happened in recent years, for we seldom have reason to come together like that. We shepherds have our own flocks and our own concerns to tend to, we do. And some may not leave their charges, for that is not safe. Huorns are not always good, and they are wild, often. Indeed, it was difficult to keep them in check last night, and I fear that were it not for my presence, and that of Bregalad, they might have harmed the strangers." "Strangers? What strangers? Where?" Pippin asked. For though Fangorn forest was vast and marvelous, he could not quite imagine anyone wanting to come there purely for pleasure. "I do not know, for they were not my concern. Some kind of Men, they seemed to me, and no threat. No, I paid them but little heed, for it is Isengard and Saruman that concern me now. I have seen his creatures of late, and I know well their sign: white hand and black field. All the… the…that which you smaller folk bear for protection against blows, which is round, often… or not… hide and wood and metal…." "Shield?" Merry suggested after a moment. "Ah, yes! Shield, that it is. Yes, the shields that were left behind have all that same mark." "Really?" Pippin perked up at this. "I thought the Mordor orcs had disappeared, but I couldn't really be sure. So it was only the Isengarders who faced the Riders!" "But what does that mean?" Merry asked, and got a shrug for an answer. "That the Mordor orcs didn't fancy following old Uglúk down to ruin? I don't know, but it strikes me as odd, that's all. I'd have thought that orcs, being such contentious folk, wouldn't pass on a fight if there was any chance of winning it." "Maybe they figured they couldn't win, then," Merry replied. "Rude of them, not to share that thought. I would've liked to have been told, so I wouldn't have worried so much about our eventual emancipation!" "Well, that is a mystery for another time," Treebeard said. "In the meantime, we shall have to do something about these Isengarders. They have troubled us more than once before, and laid waste to trees in many places. Wanton, hateful, axe-bearing, blood-scented… um… well, you understand. Horrible creatures that they are, we shall not stand for it. Something must be done! And so tomorrow, we shall away to the entmoot, and put to the others the fate of Orthanc!" In that ringing declaration burned a century's worth of slow-built wrath, and the hobbits glanced at each other in some alarm and no little awe.   
  
_Whatever it is that Treebeard plans, I should not want to be in Orthanc when he sets the wheels turning,_ Merry thought with a slight shiver. _But I have a feeling that I'll be there in any case, for all the good that I'll be. I'm sure it will be a great… something… but I feel as though I could do without greatness of any sort. I'd give anything to go home and sit before the river and let the day just wear away! But I'll not see the Shire again…._   
  
Thought ground then to an awkward halt, and Merry frowned. He had been thinking that it would be long ere he returned home, but his thoughts seemed to have bent somehow, and he wondered at the horrible finality to that last idea. _Surely not never… only for a long while. I must be catching Pippin's mood of late! Or else I'm still in an… orcish… frame of mind, I suppose. Yes, that's it. That's surely it… !_ But doubt had settled on his heart, and bury it deep though he might, he could not forget it.   
  


* * *

  
_Tûrg Mahalu:_ An attempted bit of Dwarvish, "Mahal's (Aulë's) beard!" Seemed appropriate. ;-) I love Ardalambion!


	13. Perplexities

And while the hobbits slept in Wellinghall, the long hours of the night passed with excruciating slowness for Fangorn's border-land guests. Gimli's eyelids felt like leaden weights, and although it was a struggle to keep them open, fear provided ample inspiration. And when, at intervals, fear failed, the Dwarf would press thumb and forefinger against his eyes until the burning ceased ere he opened them again.

But naught more out of the ordinary occurred, and the birds were now singing sweetly as Gimli blearily watched the first rays of the sun come streaming through the canopy.

__If I had a stone, I would throw it to silence these mocking-birds,__ he thought, casting an uncharitable look at the treetops. Beside him, Aragorn stirred, raising his dark head, and the Dwarf considered the Ranger for a few moments. All through the night, while Gimli squirmed and shifted, Isildur's Heir had sat quite still with his knees drawn up to his chest against the cold, and his arms clasped around them as he watched the darkness. Towards the early hours of the morning, he had bowed his head, and Gimli had thought his friend had succumbed to his weariness at last. That, too, had been cause for the Dwarf to fight to remain awake, for he had not the heart to disturb the other if Aragorn had managed to snatch a few hours' sleep.

Now, though, the Dwarf had his doubts whether he had, for though the Ranger seemed alert enough, his was not the attention of one who has rested soundly. There was determination in the other's eagle-keen glance, but also a certain grim quiescence, as of one who, emerging from long meditation upon some imminent doom, now faces it with the knowledge that there is naught to be done but endure with dignity. After a few moments' silent contemplation of the newborn day, Aragorn turned to Gimli, and the weight of the Ranger's stare was palpable. The other's eyes seemed darkened somehow—as seas beneath a stormy sky, lacking their usual quicksilver glitter, and Gimli shivered, taken aback.

Aragorn saw his reaction, and a slight smile curved his lips ere he released the Dwarf, saying, "Come, my friend, let us finish this business of ours!"

With a grunt of agreement, Gimli hoisted himself to his feet, wincing slightly as blood rushed to numbed, tingling extremities, and he watched with something akin to envy as the Ranger rose smoothly, apparently none the worse for having sat still as a statue all night upon the cold ground.

"Where shall we begin, though?" the Dwarf asked, grateful that the other took the lead naturally so that Aragorn would not see him limping along as circulation returned to his legs. The Ranger strode to the edge of their clearing, which ended in a short drop to the battlefield, and stood there, gazing down over the ruin. "Upon the death grounds?"

"No, for there will be little to read there, unless Éomer is less thorough than he seems," Aragorn replied. "And I think it will be of little use to search the area round here, for see!" The Ranger pushed aside some brush to expose a swath of scored earth. "Whatever hoard of creatures passed us in the night, they have trampled the ground, destroying any marks the hobbits might have left. Or rather," and now Aragorn stooped to run his hand over the earth, scooping up a fistful of loose soil, broken roots, and one wriggling worm, "rubbed away…." He let the topsoil slip through his fingers 'til naught but the worm, the roots, and a few very small pebbles remained, and then he tilted his hand to let them slide off and fall back to their native element.

"Overturned," Gimli corrected, "I would say that an odd sort of plow or shovel had been used to turn the earth, but that the spacing and shallowness do not merit such a conclusion. But trust a Dwarf in matters of excavation: something has dug into the ground and torn up what lay beneath."

"It has indeed," the Ranger murmured, frowning as he considered the marks. Rising, he began to describe a circuit about the edge of the clearing, pausing here and there to examine some mark or other which, to the Dwarf's eyes, seemed all rather similar in nature. Eventually, though, Aragorn hefted a stone rather than a bit of dirt or a few pebbles.

"What think you of this, Gimli?" he called over his shoulder. Coming to stand at the other's side, the Dwarf sucked in a breath and stared at this latest find in bafflement.

"I have worked for many years as an apprentice to my father, who has much skill with gemstones, but also with decorative masonry," Gimli said slowly, reaching out to take the rock from the Man, and he turned it in his hands, scrutinizing it carefully. "But this… never have a I see such a thing before!"

For the stone had runnels on its surface, almost as if chiseled. But the marks were not smooth enough or straight enough for craft, and as Gimli ran a finger along the inside of one of the grooves, he felt the minute, rough-broken edges, and a fine, powdery dust coated his fingertip. "I should say that the rock simply… crumbled... disintegrated, almost, as if exposed to some grinding surface. But that is impossible!"

"Even had mining been my trade, I should bow to your judgment in such matters," Aragorn replied, shaking his head. "But as a hunter, I, too, am at a loss, for I have never before seen such marks. It is unusual for prey to grind away the stone as it goes in any case, but even so, those that have the weight to do such damage have not the… art, I suppose I shall call it, to achieve this." The Ranger stood and stood silent for a moment as he made what survey he could through the underbrush.

"Well," he said at last, "we shall find nothing here, for these marks have covered or buried any that the hobbits might have left. Let us make a survey of the river banks, for that is the likeliest destination of two escaped prisoners."

Man and Dwarf crept then through the tangle of trees and brush, and the mystery of the stones and earth trailed after them, occupying their anxious thoughts. But Fangorn merited close attention if one would go unmolested and unscathed through its trees, and as they wormed through the gnarled trees. And though Gimli wished his friend no ill, he admitted a certain private satisfaction over the fact that Aragorn had always to duck to avoid branches and the like, whereas he, a Dwarf with little love for forests, was easily able to pick his way forward.

__Well, not easily, perhaps_ ,_ Gimli amended, grimacing as he tripped among the roots of a tree and cut his hand on a thorny bush as he tried to steady himself. __But I need not crawl to fit through some of these spaces!__

But in fact, Aragorn seemed little troubled by the terrain, facing each obstacle with practiced equanimity so that he, at least, acquired no new scrapes or bruises in spite of the clinging plant life. At last, though, the stream appeared before them, and the Ranger halted, glancing up and down the river bank to get his bearings.

"This way," he beckoned, turning to his left to follow the river downstream.

"Why this way, and not the other?"

"Assuming that either Merry or Pippin remember aught of our planning in Imladris, they would know that if they followed the flow of the stream, they would come within sight of Edoras. The Rohirrim have few permanent settlements—all of them are well-fortified and strangers rarely know of them, for they do not put them on maps. Helm's Deep, the stations of the Marshals of the Mark, and Edoras are the only towns that are well known to outsiders, and none of them, save Edoras, lie near enough to the Entwash to be seen from its banks."

"Sound reasoning if one knows so much about Rohan, but I doubt me that the hobbits would recall such details. I rarely saw any of them, save Frodo, spend any length of time in the library at Rivendell."

"True enough, but nothing stops us from searching upstream as well. This is but a place to begin. Carefully!" Aragorn warned, quickly reaching back to steady the Dwarf as the latter slipped on the damp roots of a large, twisted tree.

"Thank you," Gimli said, once he had regained his footing, and he cast a glower at the offending tree. "Well, lead on then! 'Twill be a long search," the Dwarf sighed. __A long search, and I hope not a hopeless one! To bear such ill news back with us would be torment indeed...__

* * *

And as Aragorn and Gimli searched the riverbanks, their companion, now their ransom, swayed along over the plain, clinging to the pommel of the saddle that separated him from his mount, Arod. Darkness heaved and swelled in the field of Legolas's vision, darkening the land, distorting it in a dizzying, sickening flow that was a mockery of the graceful movement of water through a streambed—

"Steadily, Master Elf! I should not wish to answer for you to your friends." Legolas blinked and fastened his eyes on the golden apparition of the Third Marshal of the Riddermark. Beneath a bright morning sky, Éomer frowned at him uncertainly, and though the Elf knew full well that it was simple concern for a guest's safety that prompted that regard, still, he felt it as a measure of his own strangeness.

__How must I seem to him? Even as mortals once appeared to me: sickly, weak… damaged. And is that not the truth?__ Legolas made an effort to sit up straight in the saddle, to focus thoughts stretched out and scattered along the tides of darkness and too many mortal years, conscious still of his dignity before the eyes of a Man at least, but only just. As if to drive the point home, the Marshal kneed his horse closer, so that they rode side by side, and leaned in toward the Prince.

"Should we halt for a time?" he asked in an undertone, which only cut more deeply into the Elf's wounded sense of self.

"No, for you have need of haste," Legolas replied in a low voice, and did not add, __For it would humiliate me if you stopped on my behalf!_ _

But the Horse Marshal seemed to hear his thoughts, for a quick flare of uneasy understanding flashed in those blue eyes, and with a cry, he raised his hand and signaled the small escort of ten to quicken the pace. Legolas clung to Arod's reins as the horse darted forward, and he swayed against the saddle peak, ill at ease with such unnecessary _things_. No Elf needed such gear to control a horse, and Legolas felt the intervening layers of leather and metal as an impediment to the usual bond that sprang instantly between himself and any good beast.

But perversely, he relished it. That awkwardness fit him perfectly at the moment, and so he had not asked his captors to remove either bridle or saddle, feeling that if there was to be any awkwardness, he might as well have a cause for it. _ _One which lies outside of myself,__ he thought, if only to himself. For he had not needed Aragorn's cautious inquiries yesterday to know that he suffered from more than pain and weariness. That had become plain despite his disorientation and the dimness of his senses—or rather, because of them.

Only at intervals could he rouse himself from that confused state, and after he had made his offer to Aragorn and Gimli (and Éomer as well, naturally), he had slipped back down into the depths of elvish desperation, feeling that strength born of a moment's need fade away even as his companions had been swallowed up by distance. Indeed, it was as if the sense of darkness and disintegration worsened with the miles.

Why that should be, he did not know, and the frustration was incredible. __What is wrong with me? This wound is painful, it jars me, it is a distraction and a hindrance, but should that be enough to plunge a prince into so strange and unnatural a night?__ Legolas had never been severely wounded before, and in that he was fortunate. But that merely frustrated him the more, for why then should he succumb so quickly or easily to the disruption of _cuinian _t__? Such weakness came as a shock to all, he knew, and to him more even than to his companions, for in the hours after Boromir's death, he had thought he had borne up well enough, save for that one bad moment before the makeshift pyre, when something—something had got _in_ him, and he still knew not what had possessed him to remember the horror of Feänor and his sons.

Whatever it was, perhaps it had but lain sleeping. For with the rising of the sun, something had changed in him: perhaps the journey had demanded more of him than he had had to offer, but as noon of their first full day on the hunt had approached, he had felt the first strangling tendrils of darkness curl about him. And since then, it had not released him for a moment, and the Elf felt his most basic faith shaken.

__What is this darkness? What is it?_ _ Why _ _is it?__ It lay over him like a smothering drape, and in the moments of his deepest desperation, he could shape but one thought, one plea: __Lift this veil, I beg!__ But it remained, and Aragorn and Gimli were gone, leaving him feeling quite bereft, even if he had insisted upon this course himself.

From the meeting below the downs, that course had taken him south with his captors, who had split into two companies—those accompanying the Third Marshal with their unusual guest, and who had much need of haste; and the others with their wounded, riding more slowly behind. All throughout that journey, Legolas had drifted along the fine border between the waking world and that of dark introspection, held in suspension between those two states by the jarring unfamiliarity of riding a saddled mount. It had taken him some while to realize that Éomer rode at his side, keeping him under careful watch, but he could spare that detail little attention, intent upon keeping his seat and his sanity.

With the help of the horses of the slain, though, the Marshal's small company had ridden all that night and swiftly, so that the moon was riding low in the sky and the night lay deep all about when at last, they came to a fortress town upon a hill above the plains. When at last they had passed its gates, the Third Marshal had ordered most of his men to stable and bed, but a few horsemen he had retained at the ready.

Legolas he had steered firmly into the hall to be seen by his surgeon, a gruff-faced, greying man with thick fingers, who had proved unexpectedly skilled and gentle. Not that Legolas had been in much of a mood to appreciate such seeming paradox, feeling himself lost in alien surroundings. For the surgeon spoke no Westron, only the rolling, slow speech of Rohan, and Éomer had not translated, whether because the Marshal had not the skill or because there was little of import to translate, Legolas had not known.

"I would not ask you to try your strength," Éomer had said when the man was nearly finished. "But I must reach Edoras by the morrow, for Théoden King shall have much to say to me. I fear," and here, the Third Marshal had offered a slight, somewhat bitter smile, "that I, too, may come under the king's judgment. And worse for me, for I shall have a cell, rather than a room, if things go ill!"

Legolas had frowned at that, shaking his head sharply as he ran the words once more through his mind to make sense of them. At length he had asked, "You have one hostage; is that not enough for your king?"

"'Tis not a matter of one or three, but my decision to ride against the Orcs that shall be questioned. That I allowed two strangers to go freely and unescorted about our realm will be a secondary matter," the Man had replied, sinking down onto the stool that the surgeon had just abandoned. Éomer gave the big man a courteous nod of thanks, and the other bowed in reply, then gathering his satchel, left the room silently. Legolas, meanwhile, had shrugged slightly, unused to the sling that the other had fashioned for him. It had helped to ease the burning pain across his shoulders, but done little to ease his mind, and the hall seemed to him populated with strange shadows, which made masks of mens' faces.

"Maldis tells me that your wound is not poisoned, which is glad news. But is there aught else that we can do for you? For though I mean no offense, I must say, Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, that you do not seem well to me." The young man had bent clear blue eyes upon the Elf, and there had been a deep concern and puzzlement there, but also a great heart, and a willingness to help— at once strangely comforting but also off-putting.

Perhaps had it been Aragorn sitting across from him in that moment, Legolas might have spoken more freely, for at least the Ranger was not unversed in elvish ways. But Éomer had had no knowledge of what he suffered, and for all that he had seemed—and seemed still—an honorable man, the prince had known too little of him to lay bare what afflicted. And besides—what could any Man do?

"No, there is nothing to be done on my behalf," Legolas had said quietly. The other had stared at him some moments, then given a slight shrug, as if to say 'As you will it!' and then risen, laying a hand on Legolas's arm.

"Come then, for we begin tonight and take our rest in Edoras tomorrow."

So they had left Aldburg. The ride through the night had been swift, almost perilously so for Legolas, given his waxing disorientation, and now, as the sun reached its midmorning station, the courts of Edoras rose high above them, gleaming in the light.

The Elf gazed at them a moment, watching the scintillating effect of sun on golden eaves, and tried to let the play of light dissolve the darkness that seemed to gather so thick about him. But the shadows seemed to mock his efforts, clinging tightly to that hall, tarnishing its brilliance, and the Elf had flinched before that night-in-day, retreating once more to the familiar torment of his daydreams.

Some time later, loud voices crying out in Rohan's strange tongue roused him once more, as did his mount's change of pace. The high-spirited Arod snorted as he slowed to a trot and then (reluctantly, it seemed) came to a halt as guards swirled about them. At his side, Éomer signaled him to dismount, and the Elf dropped heavily to the earth.

Amidst the bustle of men come to take charge of the horses, and the cries of greeting, Legolas found himself distracted almost to the point of pain, yet he could not withdraw as he had earlier. Buffeted on all sides by the Rohirrim and their horses, retreat was impossible, and he cast his glance round, seeking some place of quiet from which to observe, if he could, the proceedings.

And as he looked, his gaze riveted upon the Third Marshal once more, who stood some little distance away, speaking softly and (or so it appeared to the Elf) urgently with the commander of the guard. Legolas drifted his way, drawn to a familiar face at least, and as he approached, the commander glanced up, uneasiness rippling across his bearded face.

Éomer looked over his shoulder and, seeing the Elf, beckoned him over to join them. "Brand, this is Legolas the Elf, Prince of Mirkwood forest. He is my charge and my guest until the king judges me," the Marshal said, using the Common Speech out of courtesy to the Elf. "By his own will has he come hither, and he has suffered injury doing battle against plundering Orcs, and I would not have the hospitality of the Mark put to shame before him."

"I shall take the message up to the high court, my lord," replied Brand. "But if I may warn you, Third Marshal, things have gone ill here since you rode away in haste. Tidings have come from the Fords of Isen and they are not good."

And when he hesitated, then, Éomer shook his head. "Tell me," he demanded bluntly.

Brand looked upon him, and Legolas saw the pity in the other's face, as he announced: "Théodred is fallen, lord. The king's mood is black with grief."

For a moment, Éomer said nothing, but Legolas, watching the Marshal closely, blenched as that hideous, oily darkness cast its pall upon the other. It coiled itself about him, and the Elf felt the terrible sense of loss that gripped Éomer as those words registered their significance.

"Théodred, dead?" he asked, and Brand nodded unwillingly. "How many with him?"

"Too many, as is ever the case," the man paused, and his eyes flicked swiftly to Legolas, ere he said to him quickly, "Your pardon, prince!" And then came a flurry of Rohirric, while Éomer listened grimly. Finally, Brand paused, and the Third Marshal nodded slowly.

"Brave the bearer of bad news," he said softly, and clasped the man's shoulder. "Thank you, Brand. But I must see to our guest, and then go before Théoden King, if he will it. Come with me, please, Legolas," Éomer said then, tersely polite, and the Elf obeyed, following along as the young man went swiftly up into the city. In silence they walked, though all about them came the voices of men and women going about their daily business. But there was a sense of tension, of fear even, in the air, and the Elf marked many warriors stationed at intervals, and many messengers who darted through the streets on their errands.

__And everywhere there are shadows!__ Indeed, they leered in every alleyway, and hugged men tightly, wavering now and again as Men went about their business. And if no one else could see them, everyone, he though, felt them after a fashion, even the iron-eyed guards. __What is wrong, that all here lies **so** deep in the shade?__ Legolas wondered, shivering.

"This way!" Éomer turned suddenly into a gated inner court, and led the way across the yard to a tall house or inn. The Third Marshal seemed known to the keeper, who merely bowed and gave Legolas but a passing odd look. He said some word, which Éomer acknowledged briefly ere he turned left and led the way up the stairs. At the top of the stairwell lay a comfortably furnished room.

And as Legolas went to stand at the window that looked out over the courtyard, the Third Marshal closed the door behind them and sighed softly.

A moment he remained facing the door, and pain and loss echoed within the confines of his soul. _Théodred, gone! Ah, cousin, and the fight yet so hard for us here!_

But Éomer had been born to the hard discipline of a warrior, and so he set his grief for Théodred carefully aside, and then he turned toward Legolas. The Third Marshal prided himself on his ability to judge a man's character, and he had never yet erred in such matters. __But never before have I faced one of the elvish race..._ _ And so he stared at the Elf's back, attempting to order his own impressions.

There was about the other some force or sense of presence that raised the hackles—like a note drawn out upon a taut string, one that slid uneasily into discord—but he felt drawn to Legolas in spite of that disharmony. Curiosity, perhaps, played its part, for whatever his words to the three wanderers the day before, Éomer was not one to reject the novel simply for its strangeness, though he balked at too easy acceptance. Rather, he preferred to study his unfamiliar guest until he learned the key to the other's moody, distracted silence.

Crossing the room quietly, he came to stand at the other's side, and a swift-darted glance out of the corners of his eyes confirmed his suspicion that the Elf, for all that he gazed out the window, saw little or naught of what lay before him. Nevertheless, Éomer decided that what lay before them might be the best place to begin.

"Behold the court of the King! Edoras has ever been the heart of Rohan," he explained, "even in the ancient days of its building. This guest house was made to serve the needs of officers and heralds. Yonder lies the great hall of Meduseld, where the king's household is kept. That king is Théoden in these days of doubt, but before him Thengel, whom my father served ere his death. A pity that you came not hither in former days, for Thengel was accounted a strong king, as was Théoden in his youth."

Legolas was silent a moment, and Éomer wondered whether the Elf had heard aught, but at length, the other spoke in soft reply, "More than a thousand springs have I seen. Some five hundred have passed since Éorl came, and Men call this hall old! A blink of an eye to we who dwell in Mirkwood, and yet those years lie heavy upon us now. Your Théoden is dying, and his son is dead: the children of our children go to the grave before us, and it will grow but worse as the season turns!" The Elf shook his head and drew a deep breath, glanced sideways at Éomer. For his part, Éomer should not have liked to guess the look upon his face; Legolas had not to guess, and something like chagrin played then over his fair features.

"My apologies, Third Marshal," he murmured, then hesitated a bare moment ere seeming to admit: "I fear that my tongue grows wayward as darkness waxes!"

"Do you feel it, too, then?" Éomer asked, his interest piqued by that last remark. "The brooding shadow that lies upon us?"

"It lies upon all this land and colors all things," Legolas sighed, turning from the window as if in disgust, unable to bear the mockery of clear skies. "Even the stars no longer shine so brightly!" Again he paused, and shook his head. "But you speak as if something goes ill here, in this place, beyond the fall of the heir to your throne."

"Much goes ill here," Éomer replied, with grim surety. "You shall see it for yourself, I doubt it not. In truth, that is why I brought you here, rather than present myself immediately to the king, for I would not see one of good faith plunged blindly into the mire that is politics in Rohan of late. I shall have to acquaint you with my sister, if I am able, though perhaps she will take to you of her own accord.

"In any case, Master Elf," he continued, then, "know that we of Rohan have always followed the House of Éorl. Five hundred years may be but little time to one immortal, but to us, it is long indeed, and such loyalty is hard to break with. Thus when the royal house falters, so do we all, for we do not judge our kings lightly or swiftly.

"Théoden was once a man of great wisdom and heart, but it is now more than ten years since the shadow fell upon him. Fools we were, to be so long blind, for now the noose is drawn tight, and who knows but that we approach the last gasp?" Éomer grimaced in scathing self-recrimination. "The king is under the sway of one councilor—do not ask what has happened to the others!—and this councilor is called Gríma, or Wormtongue when his back is turned. Does that not tell you something?" 

"'Wormtongue'?" Legolas murmured. "Aye, that is telling."

"Wormtongue has the king's will bent to his every whisper, and he would control all that moves in Rohan. I told you not to ask after other advisors, but should you do so, you will find them quite peacefully asleep among the _simbelmyn e_, tucked beneath the turf of the grave mounds. And I doubt not that one day all of Rohan will lie upon the pyre, for Wormtongue will not wage war even when one is given to him by our enemies, and fights ever to undermine those who perceive the threat to the east.

"Even against Isengard, which lies within our bounds, he was slow to move, and ever he feeds men's fears. 'What can we do against a sorcerer? Against a power so ancient and deep in its treachery? Or is it treachery? Surely one so high must have a purpose!' Such words he speaks, and men listen, for there is that in his voice that is… compelling," Éomer admitted.

And Legolas cocked his head, and for once, his green eyes were as sharp as of old as he asked, "Why do you tell me this, who am a stranger and a hostage in your land?"

"I tell you because Wormtongue will not like your presence here. Ever he speaks against the folk of the Golden Wood, and though I will admit that such suspicion of Elves is native to my people, I like not the hatred and fear that I hear in Wormtongue's voice when he speaks of them. Dwimordene may be a perilous realm, one that a mortal should not dare to approach, but let it lie!" Éomer shook his head. "What use in stirring up fear when there is little basis for it? Truly, until Aragorn's words yesterday, I knew not whether the Elves remained there, for we have seen naught of them since time out of mind."

And like that, as if the mention of the fading years had summoned it, the shadow swelled, and Legolas clenched his teeth, shutting his eyes, as momentary focus slipped away. "This Wormtongue may rest at ease, for I fear that in my present condition, I am little threat!" he admitted, unhappily.

"Are you?" the Third Marshal asked in a soft voice, narrowing his blue eyes. "Are you, indeed, Legolas of Mirkwood? There is some power in you that draws men to you, or else repels them. I can feel it even as we speak! And though Aragorn spoke carefully in a difficult place, still, do I not guess correctly that your errand is more than mere vengeance? That some other, greater matter draws all of you on? What else would bring an Elf, a Dwarf, and a Man who claims to be Isildur's Heir to hunt Orcs in our land?"

The Elf made no answer, only returned the other's gaze impassively, but even silence was an answer, and Éomer nodded.

"Say nothing then, and keep what secrets you can! But I would have you know this: I am loyal to Rohan, and to the bond that it has with Gondor. To those who oppose Mordor's agents, I would offer my aid. At present, it may be little indeed, and doubtless it shall grow less ere the day ends," the young man said with bitter humor. "But such as it is, it is yours to ask. For as I said, I would trust you; I would trust Aragorn, and learn more of him."

Legolas blinked at that, taken somewhat aback by the intensity of those words, and for a moment, he felt the other's desperation akin to his own: it was a brief moment, but it struck something vital in the Elf. __Who are you, young one, that you have such faith?_ _ The question sprang suddenly to mind, and the prince considered the strange twist of fate that had thrown him together with this brash, eager, sincere young man. It was… refreshing, and though the Elf was almost afraid to hope, his wonder remained with him, refusing to fade away after a few minutes' silence. __Minutes! What are minutes to me?__ And yet, despite a fine elvish disdain for mortal reckoning, they were important nonetheless.

"Your trust is a greater gift than you know," Legolas said at last, searching the other's face with care. "Few are they who would offer the same upon so brief an acquaintance, and," the Elf laughed softly of a sudden, "they walk now in Fangorn, by your leave!"

Éomer gave a short bark of laughter as well, and shook his head. "Then it seems we deserve each other! Fate is a strange mistress indeed, but not without a sense of justice, even if only ironic… or is it poetic? Well, we must still make our appearance before the king, but I am glad that we have spoken. Come! Let us end this waiting." With that, the Third Marshal strode quickly to the door, which he opened and waved Legolas through ere he followed.

Down the stairs went they, and across the courtyard to a small gate in the fence that led onto a small, well-paved path bound for Meduseld. Up a flight of broad stairs they climbed, and came at last to an open yard where stood the entry to the great hall. Legolas would have gone swiftly on to those doors, but Éomer touched his arm, slowing to a halt.

"I would not do you any discourtesy, but I should warn you that weapons are not allowed within the hall, save only to high officers of the realm. And even they are not always immune to such requirements. Háma, who commands the guard here, will see to all such matters, and you may put your trust in him, for he is an honorable man."

"We of Thranduil's realm follow custom where it leads, so long as it leads not into evil," Legolas replied. "Lead on!"

Sure enough, the door warden greeted the two courteously but firmly demanded that they surrender their weapons. Éomer said naught, only unbuckled his sword-belt and handed it over, though it was clear that he was unhappy with the arrangement. Legolas unclipped his quiver from its new position at his side, and gave up his dagger. The commander—Háma?—pursed his lips as he gazed at the Elf, and hard blue eyes wandered over Legolas's person, seeking any suspicious bulges or outlines that might indicate a hidden weapon.

But at length, the man bowed, and he signaled his men to open the doors. Together, Elf and Marshal stepped through, and after the bright morning, the hall seemed dim indeed. Legolas shivered, suddenly gripped with a sharp, insistent sense of dread and uneasiness. __The darkness is spun thick as a spider's web here!_ _ Glancing at Éomer, he saw that the other, too, suffered from doubt, but there was anger beneath the fear. The Marshal's boot heels clicked upon the flagstones, seeming too loud in the silent hall. __As a tomb it is__ , Legolas thought, and shivered again, pulling his cloak more closely about him as he walked.

Down a hall, to another set of doors, where they were admitted without question, and up to the foot of a dais where sat a Man aged beyond any that Legolas had ever seen before. At his feet sat a second man, and the Elf had but to look at him to realize that he gazed now upon Gríma Wormtongue, for there was an aura of cruelty and malice that clung to him like flies to carrion. _**This** _is what controls Rohan?__ Legolas thought, and felt a flare of disgust and amazement.

" _ _Ferthu Théoden hal!__ " At his side, Éomer bowed, giving greeting to his lord king. "I come before you as custom and law demand, and I bring to you one who seeks the leave of Théoden King to walk in Rohan: Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood." At which, the Elf bowed as well, as gracefully as he could manage with a sling.

"And what of the others, Éomer?" the king's voice was harsh, rusty with disuse, it seemed—or else feeble with old age, Legolas knew not which was closer to truth. But it was clearly the voice of one quite displeased. "Brand reports that you spoke of this prince as hostage as well as guest. Where now are the others, then, for whom he stands?"

"They are now in Fangorn, and unless aught befalls them, they shall come hither when their errand is done, my king."

"It is not given to you, Third Marshal, to judge who may and may not walk in Rohan!" Wormtongue spoke for the first time, and his tone was sharp, though the Elf discerned the malicious glee that underlay the other's severity. __He has waited for this to happen, for Éomer to make a misstep! For how many years has he waited?__ Legolas wondered, green eyes narrowing as he gazed at the councilor. "Further, it is not given you to abandon your post at your own whim, taking men who are not yours to command. What excuse can you make for your departure from this court, without permission and in time of peril?" 

"The Eastfold was breached by Orcs, your majesty," Éomer replied, refusing to dignify Gríma by addressing him. He kept his eyes upon his king, and the councilor hissed softly. "More, there came to me word that Orcs of Mordor were with them, though they split away from the main host early on. If it is true that the one who sits in the Dark Tower colludes with the wizard in Orthanc, then that line must be cut or we are lost. And as the safety of the Eastfold is my charge, I rode against them, seeking to prevent our enemies from learning aught of our movements or from turning aside to plunder our people."

"And you did not think to warn us of this? Nor of the law that binds you to protect your king, when Edoras is vulnerable? How many men did you draw off from the defense of these courts in excess of those allotted you?"

"The law also bids me protect those who are beholden to the king," Éomer shot back, darting a poisonous glance at Wormtongue. "In destroying the Orcs that prey upon our people and raid our herds, I have acted to protect my king and his people, and uphold the law of this land! Had I ridden with fewer men, I would have been remiss, for we would have risked a defeat."

"And then you compounded your error by allowing two strangers to wander free in our realm!" the councilor continued as if the Marshal had not spoken. "Instead, you take hostage one of them—the only one among them to respect Rohan's laws!—and expect us to take no heed of your actions? I fear you demonstrate a woeful lack of judgment! Or is it a lack of loyalty?" Wormtongue demanded, and Legolas caught his breath at that.

"Do not you speak to me of loyalty," Éomer grated. "Théoden is my king and my mother's brother, and I would never betray him!"

 "That is for others to decide, not you, dear boy. And I may say that one so willful in matters requiring kingly judgment may find his words have little force where the question of his loyalty is concerned," Wormtongue said silkily, as he raised a hand. "Your willfulness, and the recklessness that it fronts, have led you too far astray this day. That cannot be condoned. My liege, with your permission?"

Théoden sighed heavily, but he nodded, and Wormtongue called out something in his own tongue. Guards appeared, rushing to obey the summons, but Legolas saw the ashen disbelief in their faces as they realized what they were called upon to do. And the Elf, watching through the eyes of one not bound to merely physical sight, nearly choked as the darkness seemed verily to blossom, twining itself about all present, drawing them into the evil that seemed to prevail over all of Arda as the counselor spoke:

"Take him below to the dungeons, and let him learn the price of his folly. I suggest, Éomer, Éomund's son, that you take this time to reflect upon your actions, for you may soon be required to answer for them!"

"I will answer gladly, if only the king judges me," Éomer retorted, and then, shaking off the restraining hands of the guards, he walked proudly away, seeming to drag his captors with him rather than the reverse. A door opened and then closed again behind them with ominous finality, and Legolas turned back to the dais, feeling unfriendly eyes upon him. Wormtongue was staring at him, ill at ease, clearly, and the Elf met that stare dispassionately. For a moment, the two stared, and it gave Legolas some small pleasure to realize the other's frustration as that malicious gaze met the blank wall of elvish inscrutability.

"It is a pity that you had to witness that, Legolas of Mirkwood," Théoden's voice sounded, and Legolas glanced up at the aged monarch, who regarded him now with great weariness. "Rohan once feared no treachery."

"The Age grows dark, o king of the golden hall, and all are beset, from Mirkwood to Gondor," Legolas replied. "Treachery comes in many forms, but rarely does it spring from an honest heart."

"An honest heart? Éomer has not one!" Wormtongue interjected. "My liege, it may perhaps be best to wait upon judgment of this one. Realizing that he is a stranger, he has none the less been complicit, however unwittingly, to the breaking of the laws of the realm by offering himself as hostage. Such a matter needs careful consideration ere any action is taken."

"We shall consider the matter, but he came in good faith, and Rohan keeps its hostages well," Théoden replied. "Besides which, he is a prince and injured as well: courtesy binds us to keep him honorably." 

"Assuredly, lord," Wormtongue hastened to agree, though not without a deadly glare in Legolas's direction. "Shall I see to his lodgings?"

"Nay, let Éowyn see to him. 'Twill do her good to keep her mind from her brother," Théoden sighed softly, raising a hand slightly. "Go now! Leave me and I shall send for you later. Éowyn will come soon." Legolas blinked at the dismissal, wondering where he was to go, but a guardsman signaled to him, and the Elf, after bowing once again, followed the man out of the throne room. The doors swung shut in his wake, and they went swiftly out to the courtyard once again.

"Wait here!" the guard said, his Westron accented but understandable, and the Elf nodded. The man hurried away, presumably to find Éowyn, and Legolas felt what vigor the confrontation with Wormtongue had roused drain out of him. The interview was over, and he was now alone in Rohan!


	14. Who Might Have Met Too Late

            "I could learn to hate sunset," Gimli declared, glaring at the fiery ball as he leaned against a tree with his arms folded across his chest. "With the westering sun, time feels taut, stretched out as flax upon the spindle! Long shadows it makes… and long faces!" the Dwarf added, casting a significant look at his companion who was squatting at the edge of their camp once more, gazing down at the earth… and past it to the battle grounds. Aragorn looked up, and his somber expression was lightened a moment by a brief flash of mirth for the pointed jibe.

"We may yet learn something from the field, my friend," Gimli chided gently, knowing not why he bothered to continue to insist upon hope when he felt it not. __Or only very little!_ _ But the Ranger's unsettling mood had remained dark since the dawn, and Gimli knew not whether he could bear to see the other lapse back into that state of despair that he had evinced after Moria. __Especially when Legolas, too, suffers and needs me. Needs us! If Aragorn falls too, then I doubt that even a Dwarf could carry them both.__

Still, he understood all too well the reason for the other's seeming depression, for all day he and Aragorn had wended their weary way up and down the banks of the Entwash without finding a single trace of anything two-footed, unless it were themselves. The Ranger sighed as he rose into a stretch, then walked slowly to the Dwarf to clap him silently upon the shoulder as he, too, gazed at the sun sinking low indeed in the sky. "You speak rightly, Gimli, and I thank you for the reminder. But let us go then and make our search ere we lose the light entirely," said he.

Together, Man and Dwarf turned east once more and clambered down the short slope to the ash-strewn clearing. Gimli had rather expected the Ranger to begin at once, but instead, the other stalked towards the center of the clearing, bending his course to describe a short spiral in towards that point, and he spoke words that the Dwarf did not understand. __What fey mood is upon him today?__ the Dwarf wondered worriedly, watching as Aragorn came to a halt facing west once more, head bowed. After a few moments of silence, the Dwarf could not bear it any longer. "Aragorn?"

The Ranger looked up with that same slight smile from that morning, and the rays of the sun lit his grey eyes with a golden brilliance, and in that moment, he seemed an unearthly creature, touched by the magic of the Eldar years. In Westron he now spoke, an enchanter working his craft, seeming to recite words long since committed to memory: "In fire ends all hope, but we are born of dearth; scatter wide the ashes then, turn the fields, salt the earth."

"What meaning, these words of yours?" Gimli asked, uncertain whether he liked the sound of them.

"Last rites for a warrior," Aragorn replied with a soft sigh as he let his gaze stray over the field once more. "The Rohirrim burn their enemies, and the ritual is very specific for laying to rest those who have fallen against them. One does not offend such custom lightly, even when need calls strongly."

"And may I now move?" Gimli asked, unsettled by this revelation. Aragorn nodded, and the Dwarf took a hesitant step upon the fields, grimacing as a puff of crushed cinder floated up. "Ominous words my friend. Do you expect, then, to find naught… or too much?"

"I have no expectations," Aragorn replied, beginning to retrace his steps slowly so as not to disturb any other marks upon the ground. Gimli, reminded once more of the need for caution, stepped carefully, trying to avoid anything that seemed like it might be a print. But for all that he searched and strained his eyes, the Dwarf could see nothing in this ruin and disorder that might help them. Apparently, the Ranger had come quickly to the same conclusion, for he uttered something in frustrated Sindarin ere he went quickly to the pile of grim weapons that stood as a stark counterpoint to the mound of the fallen Riders. Gimli joined him as the other began to very carefully pick through that pile.

Helms, shields, cruel swords and daggers, the steel-tipped heads of arrows–Gimli and Aragorn burrowed deeper, their disgust growing as they uncovered the black ground beneath. No ashes lay there, and the earth was damp and muddy with the blood of the Orcs. Soon, the Dwarf's hands were stained with the foul stuff, and it was getting into his beard as well. Still they searched, though Gimli was not precisely certain what the other thought to find among the leavings of the Orcs. Nevertheless, he continued in the grim task, gritting his teeth.

__If I must bathe in Orcs' blood, I would at least have the pleasure of killing them!__ he thought. __Mayhap I should ask what our purpose is here… but Aragorn seems to think it self-evident or he would have said something. Unless he truly has fallen under a fey spell!_ _ Something glinted, catching the Dwarf's eye just then. Recognition came an instant later and he gave a hoarse cry of dismay as he grabbed for it, nicking himself on a sword's sharp edge in his haste.

Aragorn paused in his efforts and turned to his companion. Gimli stood there, holding in his hands a large dagger, fair-wrought and set with red gems and gold damask upon the scabbard. Dulled was its glory by dirt and grime, but there could be no mistake, and Aragorn felt as though someone had punched a hole in his chest to rip out his heart. Reaching out, he touched the hilt and ran his fingers over the raised patterns that decorated the sheath. Mate to the blade that he had carried since Tol Brandir, there could be no doubt that it was Pippin's.

__There is still a chance that perhaps the Isengarders retained naught but the spoils, and that the Mordor Orcs took the hobbits… but only if I ignore all that I know of Orcs. And even were Merry and Pippin bound now for Mordor rather than Isengard, still, they would be lost to us. Carry me now Arwen, if you will!_ _ Shaking his head in denial and grief, he grabbed the Dwarf by the shoulders and half-shoved him from that deadly mound. Gimli staggered and went to his knees, overborne by grief, and the Ranger let himself down beside the other, closing his eyes against the sting of tears.

__Gandalf… Boromir… Merry and Pippin… we chose the right path, but to no avail!_ _ Isildur's Heir had lost many friends over the long years, and sorrow was no stranger to him, but this seemed such a pointless loss! Much though it hurt to consider Gandalf and Boromir, he could accept their deaths more easily, for each had been a warrior and had known well what it meant to live by the sword. In choosing that calling, or at least in taking it up willingly if not gladly, they had in some sense chosen also their deaths, however grievous, however painful, however prolonged. But the hobbits still reeked of innocence, and to one who had long been their protector, this brutal end wounded deeply, waking in him a sense of helpless outrage at the cruelty of fortune. Sobs shook him, quiet but racking nonetheless, and he was scarcely aware of Gimli weeping at his side.

It was some time ere Aragorn roused himself from the bleak stupor of grief, and by then he felt as though he had wept himself out, that come what may he would be unable to shed any further tears. In one way that was perhaps good, for he had had a chance to purge his grief for Boromir again and more thoroughly, and also to ease the heartache over Gandalf's loss as well. No more would he allow their deaths to haunt him, and so he wrapped his mourning for Merry and Pippin in fond memories and lovingly set it all aside in a closed corner of his mind and heart. There the hobbits would remain, silent company to all the other ghosts that marked his life.

Now Aragorn sat quietly, feeling strangely calm–not precisely numb, but certainly not himself yet either and he stilled the anguish that trembled and sang within him."Come, Gimli," he murmured, gripping the Dwarf's shoulders firmly in a gesture of comfort. "'Twill do no good to remain here." Under his guidance, the other climbed to his feet, and Aragorn steered him back towards the river, for Gimli seemed still dazed or blind. Several times, the Ranger had to support him against a fall as they clambered once more through the twisted, grasping trees.

Once they reached the river, both of them knelt down and began to wash the gore off of their hands and faces. The Ranger wrung out dripping shirtsleeves and rolled them up, scrubbing his forearms with some of the river silt. Then Aragorn ducked his head under the water and came up dripping, letting the shock of the cold help settle him. Beside him, Gimli cursed softly as he tried to get the dried blood out of his beard, and his hands trembled as he picked at the clots. After a good several minutes' effort, the Dwarf swore long and bitterly in his own tongue and pressed a hand over his eyes. His other hand he laid upon his knees, and the Ranger's eyes narrowed as he noticed the scarlet trail along the back of Gimli's left hand. Without asking permission, he reached out and caught the other's wrist firmly, lightly tracing the cut, and the swollen edges of the wound. "Gimli… whence came this?"

"Hmm?" the Dwarf glanced down and frowned. "That? I must have cut myself on something… a dagger or a sword, I think, when I pulled Pippin's blade from that pile."

"Make a fist," Aragorn ordered tautly, and the Dwarf frowned.

"Why?"

"Do it!" With a shrug, Gimli attempted to close his hand and hissed. His joints felt stiff, painfully so, and his hand shook within the circle of Aragorn's grip. Raising his eyes to the Ranger, he saw the grim look on the other's face. "The cut is poisoned," Aragorn announced tersely. Quickly he drew his own dagger from his belt and ere Gimli could say a word, he drew the edge across the back of the Dwarf's hand, below the first cut. "Let it bleed. Better yet, suck the blood and spit it out! I shall return!"

And the Ranger was away once more, darting through the foliage with amazing speed considering the obstacle that it presented to one so tall. With a grimace, the Dwarf obeyed, cursing the Orcs and his own weariness that he had not even thought of the danger such a scratch might present. _ _At least it is my left hand!_ _ But that might be small comfort, for some poisons spread more swiftly than others; he had thought grief had made him so unsteady on his feet, but now he had cause to doubt that.

Aragorn returned then, scrambling over the last knot of roots and bushes with blatant disregard for anything approaching his usual graceful passage, and he landed at the Dwarf's side with a soft grunt. The Ranger had his satchel with him, and he immediately withdrew a small vial filled with some sort of powdery substance. "What is that?" Gimli asked, for the sake of having a distraction.

"Ground moss," the other replied. "All Rangers carry it, for it works swiftly against most of the common poisons. Here," Aragorn dumped some of it into the Dwarf's water-skin. "Drink it down."

"This tastes like dirt!" Gimli complained after a gulp.

"Taste is the least of your worries, my friend! Drink!" Aragorn ordered, not pausing in his work. The cut was so shallow that his own stroke had done worse damage, so cleaning it was hardly any trouble. Using the same salve that he had used on Legolas, he then bound the Dwarf's hand tightly and sighed softly. "Let us hope that you need no more, and that Saruman has not 'gifted' his Orcs with anything more potent!"

"One scratch!" Gimli muttered, disgusted. Aragorn squeezed his shoulder firmly and beckoned him to rise.

"That is the way of evil: a drop suffices. I had thought to leave this place and ride some short distance, for after last night, neither of us will wish to remain beneath Fangorn's eaves. But the moment you seem to me to be worse, we shall halt."

"So long as you take me out from under these accursed trees, I doubt not that you shall note an improvement in my temper," Gimli growled.

"I shall hold you to that!" the Ranger responded smoothly, and the Dwarf harrumphed, but allowed the other to walk him back to the clearing to where Hasufel stood. The horse perked his ears up at their return, and Aragorn caught the animal's head in his hands, speaking softly to him as he stroked the velvety nose. Hasufel nickered softly and nuzzled the Ranger's chest, whether out of affection or hope of more carrots, Gimli could not say. After a few moments, the Man released the horse and began to strap their bedrolls and light packs to the animal's harness. It needed but a few minutes for him to finish, and then Gimli was boosted up into the saddle, and Aragorn settled himself before the Dwarf. "Ha! Geh, Hasufel!" Springing forward, the horse of Rohan obeyed the command, nimbly darting among and around the trees.

They burst from the forest's eaves just as the sun sank below the horizon, and the war-horse, tasting free air, let out a neigh and quickened his pace. Fangorn receded behind them, shrouding its mysteries with the night.

***

True to his word, Aragorn reined in only an hour after they had set out, for even a Ranger's strength is not bottomless, and he felt a need of sleep such as he seldom had before. But Gimli, also, was nodding, and he hissed when they dismounted, for the impact jarred his arm. Aragorn made him drink another medicine-laden draught of water, and insisted that the other sleep. And much though Gimli protested that he was quite well enough, the Dwarf soon fell silent, and his breathing grew deep and slow, leaving Aragorn the watch once again. And so Isildur's Heir paced in the darkness, wondering when his own luck would fail him.

__Four dead, two gone into blackest peril, and of the three left behind, two are injured!__ It was a grim tally, and Aragorn felt his own mortality close that evening, though so far as he knew, naught crept in the hollow of the night that could threaten them. __I would Halbarad were here_ ,_ he thought, gazing north. Not that he lacked faith in all others, but his cousin was his oldest friend, the first one he had made among Men all those long years ago. There was something reassuring in the continuity of that relationship, a solidity that helped to anchor him, even as Arwen did. __Shall I ever see either of them again?_ he wondered. _Shall Legolas see Mirkwood, and Gimli Erebor? And what of Frodo and Sam? Where might they be now?__ The Ranger diverted himself with trying to place the hobbits, based upon his best estimate of their traveling speed in difficult places. They ought by now to have found a way through the Emyn Muil, and have begun the journey through the marshes. From there it would be another several days' hard travel to the Morannon, assuming nothing untoward occurred.

__And that is one assumption I can ill afford!__ Aragorn sighed softly, standing over the Dwarf as he wavered. Though it was hardly late, he had been awake now for the better part of thirty-six hours, and the labor had been both mental and physical. Whatever might lurk in the darkness, he had to rest now or sleep in the saddle, which would hardly do when he had an inexperienced rider to bear with him. With a sigh, and hoping that indeed there was naught afoot tonight to merit concern, he lay down at Gimli's back, making certain to set Andúril down where he could easily reach it. Pillowing his head on his left arm, he closed his eyes and was instantly and dreamlessly asleep.

When he woke again, it was to a grey sky heralding the coming of dawn, and Aragorn ran a hand through the tangles in his hair, grimacing as his fingers caught in a snarl and he had to yank to free them. Pushing himself up on an elbow, the Ranger leaned over his companion who still slept soundly. But sweat drenched the other's brow, and the Dúnadan grimaced as he laid the back of his hand to the other's cheek above the beard. __He is feverish!_ _ Aragorn sat up, considering the problem. On the one hand, this was not entirely unexpected, for yesterday neither of them had noticed the danger quickly enough to prevent such symptoms as usually accompanied Orcish poisons. On the other, there was still the chance that this might indicate something more exotic than the usual toxins, something that Aragorn was not prepared to combat with the medicines that he had.

__Let us not think of that now,_ _ he thought to himself, checking the Dwarf's pulse. _ _Still steady_._ That was a good sign at least, and if when Gimli woke, he was neither badly delirious nor in severe pain, it would be wise to continue on towards Edoras. __If we rode hard, we might even reach it by late tonight_ ,_ Aragorn mused. Privately, though, he was almost certain it would take them two days, simply because there was no point in pushing Gimli to the point of weakening him.

"Well, Legolas," he sighed softly, gazing south once more. "A good morrow to you, but I fear it shall be another day ere we greet you in Edoras!"

***

            Legolas stood where his guide had left him and watched the rest of the guard detail watch him. They tried to be covert in their observation, but an Elf is not easily fooled, and the prince resigned himself to the stares and short, sharp glances tossed in his direction. It was rare that he felt self-conscious, for such feeling arises usually from a sense of self-doubt foreign to the elvish temperament. But he could not deny that today, he felt those piercing gazes as disturbing. __How many are under Gríma's sway?_ _ he wondered. __If the great can fall, so also can the lesser! And what shall they do now with Éomer, who has been named a traitor?_ _ He knew not the answers to his questions, but in spite of his pathetic state, he vowed he would discover them. __And swiftly, for who knows when time may run out for the Third Marshal?__  
  


At that moment, a glitter of white and gold caught his eye, and he cocked his head as the guide returned. But Legolas barely paid him any attention, intent upon the one who followed in his hurried footsteps. She was tall for a woman, and her bright golden hair was loose, save for two braids that held it out of her face. White was her raiment, and a green stone glittered upon her breast. Young she was, but her eyes–blue as her brother's–were wary, as one who has known evil and greets with measuring caution the unknown. "Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, here is the lady Éowyn, the king's sister-daughter. She will see to your needs."

"My lady," Legolas greeted her, bowing ere he looked her full in the face, and was surprised by how long she endured his gaze ere her eyes flicked to the side for relief. "I hope I shall be little imposition."

"You are none, my lord, for if the king commands it, it becomes my duty. And duty is never imposition," she replied simply, and glanced at the guide. "Return to your station, Ferthalf, and tell the king I obey."

"Yes, my lady," and Ferthalf bowed quickly and left.

"Come Master Elf, and I shall show you a place where you may rest, if you will, and acquaint me with your needs." Éowyn did not wait to see if he followed, she simply turned and began walking, and the prince hastened to match her stride, intrigued in spite of himself. He had met few human women, though he had seen them of course in his dealings in Laketown and Dale. But there was about this maiden of Rohan something that rang of steel and flint, and deeper, darker things beside that she yet held at bay. Back down to the guest house they went, and when they entered, this time the keeper came out from behind his counter to bow profoundly before them. Éowyn accepted the homage as her due, though it seemed clear that she needed it not and counted it as of but little importance. "Here is Legolas, a prince among Elves, and guest of our house. I would lodge him in your best chambers."

"Of course, my lady, this way!" The man led them up himself this time, and the Elf was amused to note the difference in the other's manners. Éomer had not inspired such deference, and Legolas wondered at that, uncertain whether to attribute it to Éowyn's sex or to a real difference in power in Edoras. __Or some combination of the two, for it seems that Éomer, though well-loved by his men and respected as a warrior, is known to be out of favor with the court.__ Whatever the case, the innkeeper bowed them into a much larger and more lavishly furnished room, with two large windows set to either side of a door that led onto a small balcony. "Is there aught else that I may do, my lady…?"

"Bring whatever you have by way of medical supplies, and then see to it that we are not disturbed," Éowyn replied, and the man hastened to obey. As the door closed behind them, Rohan's daughter slowly circled round to face the Elf, her eyes darting over him in a careful survey ere she raised her eyes to his face once more. "Rumor spreads quickly in Edoras. Men say that you come out of the Golden Woods, and I can believe that. They say that you come as a hostage for strange friends, and I can believe that. They say," and here she paused, eyes narrowing as she gazed at him, "they say that you come with the Heir of Isildur, and that I would believe if I saw him. Tell me, Legolas of Mirkwood, what is true, and what is but wistful thinking among those who need hope in whatever form it presents itself?"

Legolas was silent for a time, considering anew this lady, and with no small admiration for her forthright manner. At length, he responded, "Rumor is for once not mistaken. I did come with Isidur's Heir, and with Gimli of the Lonely Mountain. We have all of us passed through the realm of Lothlórien, and your brother took me to hostage to give my companions time to complete their duty to our friends."

"'Tis said that the pride of the Elves suffers no bondage," Éowyn replied. "And yet you allowed this?"

"I offered it, my lady," Legolas said, raising a brow. "As would anyone of good will when friendship and loyalty demand a sacrifice." __Darkness and light_ … _high born, but bent double_ …._ The prince paused as minute observations coalesced with sudden clarity, and then he asked softly, "Do you not know well whereof I speak, Éowyn of Rohan?" At which, she caught her breath, and wonder and a touch of fear flashed in her eyes briefly.

"How do you know this?" No denial, no retreat from his words– _ _Nay, she would not, for I think she knows not how to retreat!__

"An Elf is not easily deceived, my lady, even by one practiced in the art," Legolas said grimly. "Your brother is a good man, and a brave one, but alas! Where Wormtongue rules, such virtues become quite dangerous, and I think one so honest as your brother would not last without a protector. Without someone to guard his interests closer to home," the Elf finished, watching Éowyn carefully. She stared back, and her eyes assumed an almost elvish opacity as she began to nod, but just then a knock sounded and the innkeeper returned. And instantly, her manner changed, becoming once again distant and reserved, a woman beyond the power of any man to reach.

"Thank you, Wulf," she said, calmly accepting the bandages and other supplies as if naught had passed between her and her unusual guest. "You may go now."

"Aye, my lady. Good day to you both." And Wulf left, quietly shutting the door once more.

"Sit down, my lord prince, and let us see what has been done to you," Éowyn said, and her tone was that of one who would not suffer a refusal. Still, Legolas considered it, feeling suddenly unwilling to have her touch him or look upon his wound, but in the end, he sighed softly and obeyed. And if he was slow to undo the ties and draw his shirt off, Éowyn said naught, only waited patiently. He gritted his teeth while she probed the area, careful not to break the tender scabs that were beginning to form at last. "You have been well tended, I see, though this looks as though it has opened many a time before. A hard journey, I take it?"

"Very," Legolas replied laconically.

"Keep your secrets, then," Éowyn said in response to his obvious unwillingness to speak, and the Elf was surprised by the note of amusement in her voice. "But if I may say it, I know well how to guard my tongue and conceal my knowledge from the… impertinent."

"Or the ill-willed?"

"Or the wicked," Éowyn said starkly, mincing no words as she finished replacing the bandages. "I have dealt too long with them, and with one in particular. You know of whom I speak, do you not?"

"Your lord brother warned me of one Wormtongue," the Elf replied, dressing once more ere he turned to look at her.

"Gríma son of Gálmód, whom all now call Wormtongue, is a serpent, and his poison runs through this court. Théodred knew this, and struggled against it, but he was ever called west against the threat of Isengard. The other Marshals were more circumspect, strengthening their holdings, dealing in secret with each other and with our enemies. Yet most men are cowed by him, though they despise him and seek ever ways around him. But some few are weak,"–and the elven prince narrowed his eyes at the bitter disgust and contempt in her voice–"some are gullible or stupid, and they will do his bidding. If an Elf is so perceptive as the tales tell, you shall doubtless soon become aware of these slaves in our midst. Avoid them, my lord prince, for you are a stranger here and do not know our ways. I would not see you called out for a simply contrived misunderstanding."

"You speak wisely, but I fear that I must think of my companions first, who will soon arrive. They know not the danger into which they walk!"

"Short of breaking Wormtongue's hold on the king, their danger cannot be diminished. I fear me that they shall share a room with Éomer," she sighed, and turned away slightly. But not before Legolas discerned her fear and grief– _ _And love!__ –for her brother.

"This Wormtongue… he is Saruman's creature?" Legolas asked after a moment.

"It seems clear to me that he is, and to Éomer also. He once accused him so, and had Wormtongue had any honor, he would have challenged my brother and died swiftly!" Éowyn grimaced, touching the pendant that hung on its chain about her neck, as if for comfort. "But he would not, and men remember now only that Éomer is brash, a warrior to have at one's side in a battle of swords, but one to avoid in matters of subtlety. It is not untrue in its way, but my brother is not unwise, nor unskilled with words. Wormtongue has some power, though, to distort the memories of men. He speaks so surely… so smoothly… his voice, it–it is… I know not!" Éowyn bit her lip in frustration as she darted a sidelong look at the Elf. "I cannot explain it to one who has not heard it, but his words flow through men's minds like mead! Even I…." She shook her head, catching herself on the edge of a distasteful confession. "Well, you shall see it soon, my lord prince. And then beware, for I would not have a sorcerer ensorcelled!"

"I am no sorcerer, my lady, only an Elf," Legolas replied with a faint smile, and Éowyn snorted at that, which surprised him

"Elf, sorcerer, are not the two synonymous?" she challenged, and her manner was now less forbidding, more like to the that of the young woman she was: mischievous and curious.

"You have much to learn of my people if such are the rumors that Men now spread! We have each our Art, that is all."

"Oh? And what art does the Prince of Mirkwood possess?"

"That I cannot say, for I have not a name for it yet," Legolas confessed. "But let us try it! I would speak to your brother ere the morrow, and perhaps it would bring you some comfort to see him as well. How does one enter the dungeons?"

"Through Meduseld, and only with the good will of the warden, who is, alas! a man bowed low before Wormtongue. I think that latter holds him in thrall to some secret shame, but I have not discovered yet what it is."

"Then let us discover it!" Legolas said, leaning forward to stare at Éowyn. And had Aragorn been there to see it, the Ranger would have sighed in relief at the bright gleam in the Elf's eyes that recalled the prince of old. For his part, Legolas felt that liquid diffusion in his soul harden somewhat, and he blinked, drawing a deep breath. __Yes… perhaps it is well that I came here after all! If only for my own sake, that is!_ _

But he had in mind to act for the sake of others as well, and for that he needed to enlist the aid of Rohan's first lady, and Éowyn's eyes were narrowed as she considered him. __Shall I trust this stranger so fully?__ For though she was quick to perceive another's worth, she was yet quite slow to trust another with her own loyalty, having seen how quickly such things could be twisted by Wormtongue's words. Better coldness undeserved than trouble unmerited, yet she felt herself pulled powerfully by the words of this Elf. A moment more she wavered, and then decided.

Sitting back, she gazed long at the other, saying nothing as she ordered her thoughts. Finally, she replied, "They say that Elves are dangerous creatures, and that we ought not to seek them out. And I think they are right, for I know now your art, Legolas!"

"Do you?"

"I believe so. And that is why I will show you the way to the dungeons, and see to it that we need not the warden's approval to enter. But you must wait until I come for you, and do nothing untoward in the mean time." She rose, and the Elf did as well. "You are free to come and go, so long as you do not pass beyond the pale of the inner court without escort, and never beyond the walls of Edoras. Rest I would recommend, for even an immortal must grow weary, but if you are unable, then use well the time! I shall return this evening, after supper."

"Until then, my lady," Legolas bowed low, glancing up to watch as she swept out of the room. And as he straightened, a smile tugged at his mouth as he shook his head. __There goes one who should have been an Elf! Ah well, that cannot be helped, and at least I have now another ally… and perhaps a friend… in this place!_ _ He debated going out again, but in the end, he settled for opening the windows wide ere he lay down upon the bed. Darkness still swam and shimmered in his vision, but he fought it now as he settled himself. __It may still overcome me, and doubtless I shall have to struggle against it to pull myself free at times, but I shall not be its plaything any more!__ So resolved, Legolas slipped quickly into sleep, and this time as he wandered the strange paths of elven dreams, a white-clad lady with gold hair wandered ever before him.

__Walk carefully, Éowyn, for it is not safe here! Until this evening!_ _


	15. House of Glass

"Who goes there?" The question, voiced quietly–perhaps too quietly for mortal ears to distinguish easily–seemed yet loud in the utter silence, and Legolas gazed into the darkness. Another had come, of that he was certain, and he liked not the way that his heart raced at the thought.

"Welcome, Master Elf, to the House of Éorl," said a smooth voice. __Too smooth!__ Legolas felt it lick over him, as if coating him with some foul substance, and he shivered.

"Wormtongue!" Every instinct screamed at him to move, but the Elf's body felt terribly lax and refused to obey. He felt his breath coming now harder, as if with panic, and Legolas struggled for composure.

"Ah yes… Wormtongue. You learned that of Éomer, wretched boy that he is! Whispering in the background, spreading rumors… for shame!" Wormtongue's voice trailed off in a cackle, and Legolas would have spit if he had been able. But he seemed divorced from his body, or else imprisoned in it–either way, such feelings were alien to Elves, and the prince wondered fearfully if Gríma had somehow divined a way to take advantage of the break in his own integrity.

__Surely not! Not even Aragorn, I think, would know enough to deliberately force me away from myself…!__ There were ways, of course, and some were quite simple, but so far as Legolas could tell, he had not been injured in some further way. As for the more complex…. __Why would a mortal in these waning days need to learn them? And if a Ranger raised among Elves knows naught of them, whence would a Man of Rohan come by such knowledge?__ "We are taught to fear the Elves: sorcerers, luminous beings endowed with a strength far beyond that of men. And yet the Elves fail! Year by year, your numbers decrease and you fall into your world of dreams. So very fragile you are, in truth. So very… very… delicate…Legolas!"

And with each hissing word, Legolas felt as though the breath were being drawn out of him, and though he struggled and gasped, what rushed now into his lungs was not air, but the darkness that he hated. Thick as sap, it clung to him, and as sensation returned to his body, the Elf clawed frantically at the stuff. To no avail: like tar or peat, the darkness flowed over him, getting into his eyes, clogging his ears and nose, coating his mouth and sliding down his throat to sit heavy in his lungs and stomach.

__I am not yours!__ he snarled in silence, struggling against the sensation of drowning. __An Elf is no part of this Shadow–I will be no part of it! It shall be no part of me!_ _ But it __was__ a part of him: it was _in_ him, this palpable shadow, and as it infused itself into his blood, he could feel its corruptive influence. __Like poison… like pain… Stop!… leave me alone!… Valar help me, is this the age that Men fear?__ Legolas wondered blindly, feeling his struggles growing more feeble as the darkness enveloped him in a warm cocoon. __Nay, worse! Like an insect in a spider's web am I, awaiting the bite!__ For before him now lay the Other Path, spoken of with dread among Elves and in whispers if at all. The Other Path… the way of twisted kinship… the way of Orcs… __NO!_ –_

–And Legolas woke suddenly, just in time to grunt in anguish as he hit the floor hard and jarred his shoulder. The shock of that unexpected impact held him immobile for a good several minutes while he panted and shivered, scarcely able to fathom how he had ended up on the carpet. Shadow shapes danced and writhed behind his eyelids when he squeezed them shut and refused to dissipate entirely when he reopened them to take in the room from his new perspective. __What happened?__ The answer to that question might seem absurdly simple to a Man: clearly, Legolas had had a nightmare, no more and no less. Vivid, yes, but after all that he had seen and suffered, it was surely nothing to be ashamed of or wondered at.

Aragorn, having been raised in Imladris, might have been suspicious of such an easy explanation. Indeed, ere the Third Age, no high lord of Gondor or Arnor would have taken lightly the announcement that an Elf had been plagued by horrific dreams. For the way of the Elves is different from that of Men, and memory, dream, and waking life are not so clearly distinguished or distinguishable among them. It was a rare thing that an Elf should lose control of his dream-life to the point of suffering a nightmare, and bespoke some serious trouble.

__Worse, it bespeaks some other–alien–influence_ ,_ Legolas thought grimly as he picked himself up off of the ground at last. For if elvish dreams lay largely within the control of the dreamer, the rare instances when they did not were either indicative of deep divisions within the elvish soul or else of meddling by some other entity. __Gríma Wormtongue… it seemed so very real, as if he spoke in his own voice! I wonder…._ _ Legolas brooded silently, cradling his right arm carefully against the ache. __I would not have thought that… that__ worm _…_ _ _to have such power in him. But certain it is that where he rules, there lies a thicker darkness, a more concealing shade. Is it possible that he is more dangerous than I had thought? What has happened in this place, that such a creature could be admitted to the highest courts of the land?__

To such questions, he had no answers as of yet, but he intended to have them ere the night ended. Legolas had no need of a clock, nor of the long shadows that the setting sun made as its rays filtered through the windows to know that dusk came swiftly. And with dusk would come Éowyn and a visit to the dungeons of Edoras, which meant that he ought not to tarry here. With an effort, Legolas focused his mind on the present, refusing to let his attention wander off along the thousand spread out tendrils of sickly coiled darkness.

__I feel dirty!_ _ Which, after the long and exhausting journey he had undertaken, might seem self-evident, but that memory of nightmarish grime left him feeling as if the filth of an Age riddled through with Sauron's waxing malice lay still upon his skin. A swift exploration of the room revealed the necessary supplies for a bath, and though his shoulder throbbed dully as he moved, he managed to get the water into the tub without re-opening the cut.

Leaving his clothes and the bandages on the floor, he quickly submerged himself, relishing the feel of something clean against his body. Once, when he had first met Aragorn and begun to learn of the strange ways of mortals, the Ranger had told him that Men often thought of Elves as being somewhat effete.

"Elvish polish and universal concern with aestheticism seem in their minds the product of self-absorption," the Dúnadan had said, with a shrug that Legolas had interpreted as being between sadness and amusement for the misperception. To Legolas's mind, while the Bardings were not an ignoble folk, their rougher ways were certainly no improvement on "effete" elvish custom, particularly as regarded bathing. And if water could not cleanse him of the darkness that lay about him, it could lighten his mood enough to make the former bearable. Once he felt he had managed to remove as much of the dirt as he could without scrubbing his hide off, Legolas clambered out, emptied the dirty water, refilled the tub, and threw his clothes in to soak for a bit. Drying himself off with the towel provided, he then went and rummaged through his pack, dressing quickly, for he knew not how much time he had ere Éowyn arrived.

Bandages proved difficult to set in place alone, but somehow he managed the feat, and then slipped a cream-colored shirt on, followed by a dark green, sleeveless tunic that he belted into place. Returning to the washroom, the Elf finished the necessary laundry and spread the garments out to dry on the rack provided. He dragged a comb through his hair, grimacing as the teeth caught on tangles, and wondered how his companions fared. __Have they found Merry and Pippin, I wonder?__ Legolas hoped so–fervently, desperately hoped so. And he hoped also that Aragorn and Gimli had met with nothing ill-intentioned in the fabled Entwood. __I should have liked to see Fangorn_ ,_ he thought, and smiled a bit, hearing in his mind a dozen, rough-voiced dwarven responses to that. _ _Dear Gimli, I never thought I should miss a Dwarf's company more than that of my brothers. At least you have Aragorn for company, and need not go to a dungeon to see him!_ _

By the time he had finished getting the snarls out of his hair, the sun was no more than a smudge of red on the western horizon, but the Elf drifted out onto the balcony anyway. Standing there, he gazed out at Meduseld's golden roof, and he wondered that so fair an edifice could contain within it so dark a heart. Yet in spite of the sickness that lay upon this city, the wind that ruffled his damp hair carried to him the sounds of life–voices raised in laughter at some intimate joke, or the cheery greeting of friends as they called to each other. A song picked up in the yard below– _ _The innkeep?__ –and though Legolas could understand naught of the words, he closed his eyes and listened; and after hearing the chorus once, he added his voice–a low, wordless exhalation of harmony, sweet and distinct from the voices of Men. __Even here, not all is darkness_ ,_ he thought. __I must remember that, when my hope runs low!__

At that moment, there came a knock upon his door, and he turned away from the view. "Come!" he invited, and was not surprised when Éowyn appeared, bearing with her a tray set for two.

"A fair welcome," Éowyn said as she set the tray on a low table and indicated that he should join her. "I fear this is poor recompense for the song, but I think none of us told you of the hours that the innkeeper holds here, and we shall likely be gone long past them. Eat, unless Elves need but a tune to live off of!"

"Music is as the air, but air alone does not suffice," Legolas replied glibly and came to join her. "Thank you for the company."

"I would rather yours than another meal alone," Éowyn replied rather darkly. "And we must speak in any case ere we dare the gaoler's questions." She paused to break bread and dipped a morsel in her soup. "Éomer's case cannot be held for very long without judgment, so we shall have few opportunities to speak with him ere his fate is decided. Such haste is the law of this land, which decrees that a man may not be held for more than five days before he makes his plea before the king. For an honorable man is needed always and quickly, and it would be cruel if by too lengthy a wait his honor were to be questioned unduly."

"And what of those who are not honorable?"

"Then best that we learn of the fault quickly and move to be rid of it," Éowyn replied simply. "Since Éorl rode to the succor of Gondor, this has been our way. Those of Minas Tirith call us swift, but they have their own traditions. In any case, I have not much time to decide what must be done, and in such matters, Éomer will have much to say."

"What is your place here, my lady?" Legolas asked, cocking a pale brow at her.

"I am the king's servant, the lady of his hall for he has no wife any more, and Théodred never wed. In former times, such was a position of honor, but of late it, like much else, has fallen into disrepute," the other said bitterly.

"But you serve your brother also."

"Only insofar as it is granted me to speak now and then with the king unremarked, or with the marshals and others who go about this court. I may not speak on his behalf in court, though. Not as I am!"

"And what are you?"

"Are Elves blind, or have they no children?" Éowyn asked, seeming both puzzled and amused by the question.

"Ah." Legolas was not often at a loss for words, but in the face of his tablemate's reply, he knew not what might be the appropriate thing to say.

"In any case, should any ask you why you go to see the Third Marshal, say only that you wished to thank him for his pains. And I, who have been commanded to see to your needs, do but facilitate the meeting. None shall believe us, but it shall be difficult to challenge the excuse. For you do wish to thank him, do you not?"

"Of course."

"And I wish to do my duty," Éowyn gave a thin smile that made the Elf blink, recognizing in those sharp blue eyes a predatory amusement and defiance that he was accustomed to see only in warriors. "The guard shall finish its meal and return to its place in perhaps a half an hour. We shall therefore wait an hour ere we make our attempt."

"If I may ask, you said you would see to it that we need not seek permission from the warden…."

"And we shall not need to do so," Éowyn replied firmly.

"How did you manage that?" Legolas asked.

"Gríma controls the king and all posts of any power or influence in court, either directly or through the pressure that he can bring to bear upon those who hold them. But he is a man, and pays little heed to lesser posts," Éowyn said enigmatically. __And that is all the answer I am likely to receive__ , the Elf thought. He bowed his head slightly, conceding the round, and set to work clearing his plate. The two of them ate in silence for a time, occasionally glancing up to stare at each other. Always, Éowyn would look away first, but Legolas found it fascinating that she continued to dare his gaze, for many refused to do so after but a single rebuff. "Is there aught that you would know of Rohan, my lord prince?" Éowyn asked after a time.

"There is much I would know, but tell me this, if you can: how did Gríma Wormtongue come to have such influence? From all that I have seen of the Rohirrim, which is admittedly little," Legolas said, "they seem a proud folk, and not one easily led astray. How is it possible, then, that Rohan tolerates a Wormtongue?"

"You ask a question that many ask, and even the great and those accounted wise among us hesitate to answer it. In the beginning, he came to his position through his inheritance, as is usual, for he was born to a high family. He served well enough as a Rider and later as a captain, though with no particular distinction. Some say," and Éowyn gave a soft bark of laughter at this, "some say that that was ever his way: to serve with no particular distinction. He is as one of the fabled southern lizards that can take the color of any setting and so pass unseen. Know you of these creatures?"

"I fear we have none in Mirkwood, and from the deep south there comes little news and we seek not after it. Aragorn would know," Legolas replied.

"Ask him then, for I, too, would know the truth of old tales. But I stray!" Éowyn berated herself gently with a toss of her proud head. "Gríma was ever posted to the west, and often patrolled far up the Isen, for the Orcs were wont to come southeast from the tail end of the Misty Mountains, that we call the Grauberge. For a time, he was Théoden's messenger to Isengard, and perhaps that was how he was ensnared, I know not. 'Tis a strange thing, but many of the officers who served him in the field died shortly after he began his ambassadorship. An odd coincidence that many now see as contrivance, but the deaths are already so old that no evidence can be found of foul play, and at the time, there was no real cause for suspicion.

"It was only after councilors began to die as well that men looked askance at him, but by then it was too late. For it seemed that after he began his duties as a councilor that he had found in speech what he lacked as a warrior: skill and passion. He soon had the court under his thumb and Théoden round his finger, bent like a ring!" Legolas could not quite forbear to grimace at the unwitting but too apt analogy, and for an instant, Frodo's tormented face leapt clearly to mind. __Courage, my friend! And safety, wherever you may be at this moment!_ _ "So it stands even now, and no one dares to challenge him. Yet! For he cannot stand forever. Soon enough, men will rebel but who can say whether it shall not be once more too late?"

"And Éomer would have been their leader, these would-be rebels."

"He would have, yes," Éowyn replied softly and bowed her head a moment. Legolas stared at her a long moment, suspicious of what had not been said. After a moment, she raised her eyes to his once more, seeming once again the cold-faced maiden who kept all at a courteous distance. "Eat, Legolas of Mirkwood! I would not have it said that you found our hospitality so ill that you fainted for lack of sustenance!"

"An Elf would never be so ill-mannered, my lady," he murmured even as he obeyed.

"Something to remember, doubtless," she replied with a slight smile.

***

It was full dark when Edoras' first lady and Mirkwood's youngest prince entered Meduseld by a side door and went calmly through its many halls to its southernmost corridor. There opened off of it a small door, one hardly to be noticed, and there Éowyn paused. "Do as I do, and say nothing if you can avoid it," she instructed. Pulling the door open, she grasped her skirts by one hand and raised the lantern with the other as she began the descent. Legolas followed carefully, and forced himself to focus, though the darkness seemed so close about him it threatened to steal his breath once more. _ _I am not of the darkness, and it is no part of me!__ he repeated to himself, and said naught as he went down in his guide's wake. At the bottom of the stairs there stood several men: guards, clearly, and as the two of them rounded the blind corner, they closed ranks against them, blocking the door. Éowyn ignored the lot of them, striding straight up to their commander, who frowned deeply at her presence.

"My lady, this is no place for such as you," the man said gruffly in Rohirric.

"I come to bring a visitor to the Third Marshal, captain," Éowyn replied coldly in Westron. "Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, and a guest of my family, would thank the Marshal for his aid and consideration. Alas, the prince speaks not our tongue and knows not our ways, so I have come to guide him. Let us pass, captain."

"I have had no orders concerning this…." the man stalled.

"And you must always have orders in order to decide anything?" Éowyn shot back, and Legolas did not miss the grins on the faces of some of the soldiers. Someone sniggered, and their captain shot a dark look over his shoulder. Admittedly, the scene was ridiculous: the captain alone outmassed Éomund's fair daughter twice over, and was armed as well, but Éowyn stood proudly and her disdainful glance informed all present that she viewed the entire detail as no better than errant boys playing at soldiering.

__She is taller than she seems__ , Legolas thought, realizing that Éowyn had not to raise her chin very high to stare directly into her opponent's face. The captain flushed, whether in embarrassment or fury it was difficult to say, but the effect was impressive and Legolas had sternly to command his face not to twitch, his lips not to smile at the other's discomfiture. "Come, open the door and let us pass! Or send to the warden to ask his permission."

"I may not, my lady, he is… indisposed."

"I see. Then please consult with yourself and come to a decision. The night grows older, captain!" Éowyn said, letting a touch of scathing contempt and impatience color her tone.

The captain was silent a moment longer, but then he gave a sigh and jerked the key ring from his belt. "Stand aside," he ordered his men, who fell back willingly before their captain's temper and their lady's scorn. "You shall vouch for him, my lady? As he cannot vouch for himself…."

"Of course, captain. Come, my lord prince," Éowyn beckoned imperiously and swept into the low-ceilinged corridor beyond, turning left without a backwards glance. The door slammed shut behind them, and Legolas shivered slightly, wishing he had Gimli beside him. A Dwarf would not find the cramped, subterranean corridor daunting, but Legolas found the space claustrophobically tight. His father's halls had prison cells which, like the rest of the city, were below ground, but the Elves had delved carefully so that free air could flow through all areas of the city, and even the dungeon had a vaulted ceiling, else no Elf would have stayed there for long, even to guard it. __Soon Gimli shall come_ ,_ the prince comforted himself. _ _And I must not be found wanting in the mean time! 'Tis but this injury that makes of this unease more than it is.__ So he told himself and followed Éowyn, who seemed to know precisely where she went.

"Éomer shall be in the back, where traitors are kept," the woman of Rohan said over her shoulder. "'Tis not far! Come! Swiftly!"

***

Éomer sat upon the plank that served as both bed and bench, back wedged into the corner, eyes closed, one leg drawn up to his chest while the other dangled over the edge. He had his arms clasped about the one knee, his chin rested on his forearms, and his chest felt hollow with grief and hopelessness. Since his incarceration earlier that day, he had paced his tiny cell one hundred and seventy-three times (that he had counted), brooding on the misfortunes of his house and country. And when he had lost patience with the repetitive nature of his thoughts, he had tried his best to divert himself: humming old tunes that he had long loved; playing chess in his head and losing with every victory; trying to calculate the costs of grain for the next year if the weather held; speculating on the bets men had probably already placed on the spring races that were always held in the Mark; wondering whether anyone had seen to Firefoot; counting horses in his head as he had as a boy when he had been unable to sleep; and finally adding long chains of numbers for no particular reason except that it kept him busy.

But eventually, his thoughts had turned to darker things in spite of himself. Grief for Théodred had descended with such suddenness it had caught him by surprise, and in the lonely confines of his cell, he had wept for the cousin who had been his friend and guide since he had been a child. __And what of Éowyn?__ He worried incessantly over her, cursing Gríma in the darkness, and had swiftly discovered that in spite of years spent among the earthy Riders of the Mark, his vocabulary was not so extensive as he might wish in this instance. As his defenses wore swiftly down, even his usual restless energy had abandoned him, and he had sunk into a sort of bleak state of __attente__ , waiting for the axe to fall, knowing it must, and wishing only that the farce of a trial were over already.

For though Éomer was no coward, his was not a spirit to withstand confinement for long. All his training had prepared him for the field, for the hardships of war and the trials, physical and spiritual, that accompanied it. To sit and wait for doom to come and claim him, unable to do aught to prevent it or even to forestall it, did violence to one accustomed to think in terms of what damage he might do his enemy ere he perished. To die without having managed to accomplish anything struck him as dreadful in a way that even a painful deterioration did not. __Wormtongue could not have devised a worse torture for me had he tried,__ Éomer thought grimly. __How long shall he make this period of waiting stretch? The full five days? And how many more, if the trial is drawn out? But how could it be, for if Gríma would be certain of me, he must paint me a villain so deep in treachery there can be no chance of redemption! That should not take him more than a day or two, for did I not give him the means with my law-breaking?__ Which still left him with a minimum of seven days in this hole, and he shuddered in horror at the thought.

In an attempt to sooth his nerves, Éomer strove to make his mind as blank as the fresh-fallen snow, to find that space of focused calm whence he could control his frustration, leash his anger and despair, and forget for a time his worry. But for all that he tried, it seemed that he needed a solid threat to inspire him, and he could not fight a cage. Drawing a deep breath, he held it 'til spots danced behind his eyelids, then exhaled slowly, wishing that he could empty himself of emotion so readily. __I would serve my king honorably_ ,_ he thought bitterly. __I would die for the Mark, and I would give whatever I have to help those who fight against the malice of Sauron and his creatures, be they wizard or orc or worse than that! I have tried to do these things, but I cannot cure the cancer that strangles this realm, nor fight an enemy who wraps himself in royal authority. What shall become of Éowyn? What of those who have promised to come to Edoras? I would not see Gimli or Aragorn harmed, and I suppose as it stands I shall not! But what shall become of them? And of Legolas? I was–am– so sick of hiding and seeking ever the secret way. And in the end it mattered not! Here sit I, waiting….__

"This way!" A voice broke through his dark reverie, and Éomer felt his spine stiffen as he jerked his head up and his eyes flew open. __Éowyn?__ But surely the warden would not let her in, for the Third Marshal knew well the man's reputation as Wormtongue's creature. Light shone forth, coming from some ways up the corridor, and Éomer slowly unfolded from his position, hardly daring to hope as the sound of light footsteps reached him. "Éomer!"

"Éowyn!" Coming to his feet, he took two strides to reach the doorway, and he gripped the bars as the footsteps increased their pace, breaking into a run. The light grew brighter, and then his sister's tall form appeared. No more welcome sight had he ever seen than her face in that instant, and as she thrust her arms through the bars, he grasped her hands tightly, bringing them to his chest as he leaned against the cross bars, brother and sister ignoring the barrier in search of each other. "Éowyn…."

"Hush! I know, you would not have me stay, but brother, your authority stands in shambles, I fear, and I for one shall take advantage of that!" she replied, and her brother managed a laugh for the show of spirit.

"Hellcat!" Éomer retorted lovingly. "But how is it that you are come?"

"She poisoned the warden," a new voice said, and the Third Marshal, startled, lifted his head to gaze past his sister to where Legolas stood holding a lantern. The elven prince bent his bright eyes upon Éowyn, and he cocked a fair brow. "Is that not so, my lady?"

"The warden is indisposed," Éowyn replied, which did naught to confirm or deny the accusation.

"Éowyn… you did not…." Éomer stammered, caught between admiration and an appalled disbelief.

"I did nothing to the warden," she replied, and cast a glance back over her shoulder. "Did I not say to remain silent?"

"You also said that Gríma was a man," which meant nothing to Éomer, who could not fathom how so banal a truth could be significant.

"And you, being an Elf, are not so blind, is that it?" Éowyn demanded, and Legolas gave a half-smile, bowing slightly in acknowledgment.

"You came from the kitchens, and you serve the king often. Is that not what you told me?"

"You poisoned the warden?" the Third Marshal demanded. And seeing that Éowyn began to reiterate her denial, impatiently added, "Or you had another do so! A small difference in the eyes of the law, Éowyn, for Béma's sake! What possessed you?"

"Doubtless the same reckless impulse that led you here, brother, so do not reprimand me!" Éowyn's eyes flashed. "The warden shall be quite well by morning. Besides, we have not time for such trivial matters."

"Why have you come? Both of you?" Éomer sighed, accepting that there was naught he could do to change his sister's actions.

"I came to thank you for your aid and consideration," Legolas replied smoothly, which seemed for some reason to amuse Éowyn greatly. "And I do! But we would speak of Edoras and Rohan as well. Your sister has sharp ears and fears not to remember all that she hears. It seems that the force that overwhelmed Théodred's men was quite large."

"So I had been told," Éomer replied. "I fear that if it is not countered, and soon, then our forces shall be divided. As it comes out of Isengard, we have no way of knowing whether it constitutes the bulk of Saruman's strength in arms or if he has still more men to throw at us."

"How soon could this army reach us here?"

"If its captain kept a swift pace and shortened the rest stops, I doubt not that it could reach Edoras in little more than two days. But that assumes they mean first to strike at us here: some men will have escaped the wreck of the Fords of Isen, I doubt not, and they will have retreated to Helm's Deep. Saruman's captain may decide to invest the keep, but he need not use the whole of his strength to do that. If he leaves a few companies there, it may be enough, and then he could continue south with the rest to raze Edoras."

"How likely is it that he would do this?" Legolas asked, frowning as he considered this unsettling speculation.

"It is what I would do, were I in command," Éomer replied with a shrug. "Helm's Deep is well known as Erkenbrand's stronghold. But Erkenbrand it was who sent messages to Edoras with the news, and who begged for such help as could be spared. I doubt not that the straits are dire, for Elfhelm has not returned, or had not when I was sent here. I suppose there is no news on that account?" And Éomer glanced at Éowyn now.

"I fear not even a whisper has come south," she replied. "But that does not calm the whispers at home. Fear is in the air, and men look north with dread, awaiting the tidings of loss. You know well whereof I speak, Éomer."

"The Fords are at once an asset and a liability," the Marshal explained for the benefit of the their guest. "They are not easily defended because of the lie of the land. It seems clear that this attack was well-planned, and I doubt not that Saruman knows well how to exploit the weakness of those who may not maneuver freely. In any case, if Erkenbrand would reinforce and cover the escapes of the Fords, then Helm's Deep is open. Saruman need only prevent those within it from escaping, and then he could take Edoras at will, for with so much of our strength arrayed to the west already, we are weak here at home."

"Two days, three at the most," Legolas murmured, shaking his fair head. "If we had to make a stand here, what chance would you give us?"

"Without aid, our chances dwindle to nothing," the other replied grimly. "Worse, even had we help, whom would our people follow? There is no one left, save Háma, but he is not known widely enough to command the attention of men in a panic. If the king will not lead us, then I fear we are lost ere the battle is even begun!" He squeezed Éowyn's hands tightly against the anguish that rose in him at such a pronouncement.

"There must be some way…." Legolas trailed off, cocking his head suspiciously.

"What is it?" Éowyn demanded, glancing over her shoulder.

"Someone comes. I heard the door open," the prince said softly.

"Perhaps they come for another," Éomer suggested, but quickly fell silent. The trio waited, tense, and to Legolas, even their breathing seemed too loud. He would have shuttered the lamp but that that would seem incriminating if the newcomer expected to find them here. __And Éomer's words aside, I heard no other sounds as we came. I think he must be the only prisoner in this section of the dungeons at least_ ,_ he thought. Minutes seemed to drag by, and Legolas closed his eyes. For whether or not his human companions could hear it, the footsteps that he had tracked since the door's creak were coming unerringly towards them, and the Elf felt a shiver pass through him as the shade seemed to grow deeper. "Elbereth Gilthoniel!" he breathed, opening his eyes again.

"What say you?" Éowyn asked from behind him, but the Elf did not reply. Soon enough, the sound of another's measured tread grew clear even to brother and sister, and with it the knowledge that there was no escape.            

And as the visitor rounded the bend, flanked by two of the warden's men, Éomer cursed softly under his breath, while Éowyn went rigid. Legolas alone did not flinch, but stared eye to eye, unblinking and unmoving, with Gríma Wormtongue. The king's councilor swiftly looked away, his gaze wandering to Éomer and then to Éowyn, who still stood clasping hands through the bars of the cell. "The dungeons are no place for a lady," Wormtongue said, and smiled thinly.

"Nor is it a place for my brother, but if he must stay here, then I shall visit him," Éowyn replied tautly. "You may not deny me that at least!"

"But I think that you have had long enough, and a place such as this so quickly takes its toll on a fragile spirit," Gríma responded smoothly, stepping closer to the pair. And when Éowyn made no move to leave, he added, in a tone that would brook no argument, "'Tis time you left, my lady. We shall speak of this later."

"Farewell for a time, then, brother," she said, refusing to address Gríma and turning instead to Éomer once more. Freeing a hand, she reached up and touched his face lightly, giving him a brief smile ere she stepped away and went to stand at Legolas's side.

"Take care of her," Éomer replied, but looked to Legolas, and the Elf gave a bare nod. That set his heart somewhat at ease, and he glared at the councilor balefully, earning a slight snort of contemptuous laughter for his bravado.

"Come, Éowyn, my lord prince," Gríma said, gesturing for them to precede him. "I would speak with you both. Pleasant dreams, Éomer!"

Éomer spat on the ground in the councilor's wake, clutching hard at the bars, swearing to himself. __Damn his eyes!__ He did not miss the way that Gríma hovered over Éowyn as they left, standing far too close, and he felt a wordless, primordial rage rise within him. _ _If he should touch her… !__ Leaning against the bars, he felt the metal cool against throbbing temples. Éowyn was not safe in Edoras, and with his confinement, she stood as if naked before Gríma's malice, and Éomer winced at his own choice of words. __Éowyn!__ he despaired, while a brother's love and fear stabbed at his conscience. But there was naught he could do save wait and brood… and dream of revenge. __Pleasant dreams indeed!__


	16. Dram of Evil

_"_ __Dysig, Éowyn. Thu fultumist nic thínum brothore._ "_

_"_ __Bysmere mé nic, runwita!_ "_

_"_ _ _Freche giedde, mín lytling!_ "_ Gríma chuckled as they emerged into the south-east hall once more. Incomprehensible as the speech of the Dwarves was that latest exchange to Legolas, but as they had ascended and the barbs had grown more caustic, he had felt his wrath well up in response. The patronizing, sneering tone of that last comment evoked outrage in the elven prince: an outrage exacerbated by the humiliated fury that Éowyn's posture radiated.

But there was also a touch of fear that showed in the slight hunching of her shoulders, as if she recoiled from the councilor's breath on the nape of her neck. Her face white as marble and as hard, she came to a sudden halt and whirled to face her tormentor, who followed her so closely that they stood now nose to nose. __Or they would, were he taller or Éowyn shorter_ , _the Elf thought. But though Éowyn might look down in all senses of the word upon her uncle's councilor, she stood clearly at a disadvantage in this encounter, even without the presence of the guards. Still, child of warriors, she refused to surrender without a fight.

" _ _Ic gelonge éow nic! Nic nu and nic æfre, ful nædre!__ " Wormtongue raised a hand, and Éowyn seemed to steel herself. The councilor's mouth opened and some cutting retort hung clearly on the tip of his tongue, but no sound passed his lips. Indeed, it was not only his tongue that was arrested, and he wrenched his gaze from Éowyn to stare at Legolas. Or rather, to stare at the hand that gripped his wrist firmly and held it suspended there, a bare few inches from Éowyn's face. For the Elf, watching, had waited until he was certain of the other's intent ere he moved, quick as a cat, to intercept the blow ere even the guards could blink. Even now, they stood still, shocked, seeming uncertain whether they ought to intervene. Dragging his eyes up to the Legolas' face, the councilor's lips twisted in a grimace of rage, and the Prince of Mirkwood bared just the tips of his teeth in a gesture that the charitable might have called a smile.

"Forgive me, councilor, for I am a stranger to this land and know naught of your ways. But some customs stand regardless of place, and no one strikes a woman in my presence." Elf and Man stared at each other, and though Gríma quickly looked down, the air throbbed with his wrath, and Legolas felt the hair on the nape of his neck rise in response as his vision seemed to cloud with shade…

"Enough!" Éowyn intervened, laying a hand on the Elf's wrist and batting irritably at Gríma's raised arm. The two fell back a bit, rather startled by her resurgence, and Legolas released his grip. Éowyn stood now between them, shooting a warning look at the Elf ere she turned her attention once more to Wormtongue. "You would speak to us, councilor, so be swift and do so in a tongue that our guest is able to understand."

Into the poisonous silence that had fallen, Wormtongue drew a breath as if to calm himself, and said in a low voice, "I am to bring Legolas before the king. As for you, Éowyn, I would speak with you later. For the moment, you are dismissed to your chambers, for the day has been long and you have been so very… diligent… in the carrying out of your duties." At which Éowyn stiffened, but after a few fulminating moments, she nodded.

"Good evening to you, my lord Legolas. I shall see you on the morrow," she said with deliberate emphasis on the pronoun, excluding Gríma from her consideration. She made him a curtsey, which Legolas acknowledged with a slight bow, and then Éomund's daughter whirled and stalked tensely away into the dim-lit halls.

"As for you, Prince of Mirkwood, follow me, for you are wanted," Gríma ordered, drawing Legolas's attention from the retreating figure of Éowyn. The Elf stared impassively at the other, attempting to gauge the danger into which he had been invited to walk. There was an aura of secret and malicious pleasure about the other, and the elven prince wondered at that. __What has he persuaded King Théoden to say or do? For surely he would not bring me before the king for any good reason: he will have prepared the way, of that I am certain!_ _ Nevertheless, he could not see a way of avoiding the interview, for it would hardly be wise to refuse such a command. __I must be cautious: if the Shadow should overwhelm me, I would be an easy mark even for one unarmed._ _

With such considerations firmly in mind, he replied coolly, "Lead on then, Lord Wormtongue!" Smiling to himself as the councilor hissed slightly at the name, the Elf trailed in the other's wake. They walked now north along a side passage that seemed to run parallel to the great hall and throne room. Where the king's quarters lay, the Elf knew not, but he would remember the way they took. Meduseld might have many corridors and hidden spaces, but he had hunted on paths that no Man could possibly follow nor dream of finding again. Up a spiraling, torch-lit staircase they went, and though he hardened his heart against them, Legolas felt the tendrils of darkness reaching out to touch him once more. __Is it only I who feels it? Who smells it? Can it be that Men are insensible to this stench of decay, of evil festering in their midst?__ he wondered, narrowing his eyes as he stared daggers at Gríma's back.

If anyone could smell the reek of this spiritual rot, he doubted not that the councilor could, and more, that the wretch savored it. It was an unsettling thought, and as he walked, Legolas held close memories of the sun upon the trees of his homeland; of the freedom of branching pathways; of Aragorn's voice as he spoke Sindarin, imbuing an immortal tongue with a mortal tone and timbre all its own; and last but not least in his thoughts, that particular gleam in Gimli's eyes that meant an elven prince was about to learn the measure of wit. _ _And whatever it may be that Gríma Wormtongue would show me, best that he not stand too close, else he shall learn the measure of an Elf's wrath!__ So he vowed, and hoped it was no hollow promise.

At length, they came to an upper hallway, laid with a thick carpet so that sound seemed to fall dead in that space. At the end of the hall there was a door, and through it Gríma led him. Legolas entered slowly, disliking the feeling that he walked now into a tomb. __Or a trap!_ _ The antechamber, however, held nothing unexpected, unless it was the feeling of disuse and mustiness that pricked at the Elf's instinct for trouble. "I thought you said that you would take me to the king!" Legolas said suspiciously.

"And I would. This way, Master Elf," Gríma replied, in a tone that suggested he spoke to an impatient child. If he intended to insult the other, however, then for once he missed his mark, for Legolas found the very idea so utterly absurd that he nearly laughed aloud in spite of the chill that ran through him. Through a second set of doors they went, and as Legolas stepped over the threshold, Gríma moved sideways, allowing the Elf an unimpeded view of the chamber. It also put his back to a wall, and Legolas, well-versed in the intricate dance of battle, moved easily and automatically to the other side, putting space between them.

__Not that I believe that this stooped creature could best me in an open fight, even injured as I am, but I must not be careless!_ _ He let his eyes wander the room, noting the deep green hangings and the rather closed and stuffy feel of the place… and then he saw the bed. Almost immediately, he cursed, moving forward for a closer look.

"King Théoden?" he murmured, frowning at the supine form. __Is he dead? Nay, he breathes… but there is something wrong… Valar help me, there is something dreadfully wrong!__ To his eyes, the king seemed more than ancient: he seemed utterly leeched of any strength, veiled in a shroud of darkness that seemed spun of the cobwebs of Mirkwood. Turning sharply on Gríma, Legolas demanded, "What have you done?"

"His health fails, and we who have a care for Mark's future must see to it that the king sleeps undisturbed," Gríma said from his place by the door, and Legolas felt every muscle tense at the implications. "Think you that I do not see your purpose, Master Elf? You think to rekindle the guttering torch, you and Éowyn."

"Do not you speak her name to me!" Legolas snapped, turning back now to stare at the king's lined face. "I will not hear you sully it!"

"As you wish," Gríma replied, seeming quite unconcerned. "'Tis a futile project, Prince of Mirkwood, and you must be made to understand that. Are you so arrogant as to think that you could rouse this carcass to action? Look at him! What is this king but worm's food? He dies, Legolas, and that is the only gift he can possibly give us! Riddermark's strength failed long ago—indeed, it bound itself to death ere ever there was a Riddermark! By choosing Gondor and the west, it has marked itself for condemned, for the west fades. Even as do the Elves!" Legolas hissed softly, shooting a quick, venomous glance over his shoulder ere he sank to one knee to stare at eye level at Théoden. "We do but play at greatness, and ignore the truth: that there are other powers poised to fall upon us, and before them there can be no resistance, for truly they are great."

"Saruman is a puppet of Mordor, and Mordor naught but a ruined land. You are a fool, Wormtongue!" Legolas replied, lifting a hand to hesitantly touch the king's temples. The pulse seemed faint, but steady, and the elf pursed his lips thoughtfully, feeling that beat thrum softly through his blood. __Is it possible… ?__

"And yet the East shall triumph in the end, and with it I shall rise! Too long have I served and been overlooked! Too long have a few brash children played at politics and blithely ignored the reality that lies beyond these green fields: Mordor rebuilt, more powerful than before, and its enemies reduced to naught but husks of their former selves. Gondor is weak, Eriador is nothing, the Dwarves teeter on the brink of collapse with each threat. And the Elves? What have your kind done to aid us in a thousand years and more? Naught! You sit in your woodlands and sing pretty words, like birds in a cage of their own crafting! And when the pinch comes, you flee to the seas to drown your sorrows! You–what do you?" The tirade ended abruptly in a sharp, suspicious question.

For Legolas had listened with but half an ear, continuing his gentle exploration of the aged face that lay so still before him. His hands laid now over the king's ears with his thumbs pressed gently over the closed eyelids, the Elf leaned close, ignoring both the ache in his shoulder as the cramped position strained the muscle and the risk to himself. And while Gríma had waxed eloquent, he had begun to sing very softly, seeming to blow his tune into the king's mouth. __Every creature has its song__ was an elvish maxim, and though a mortal might take that for a figure of speech, it was meant quite literally. __For we have each of us our own rhythm, set first by the heart that beats in us, and the melody of our thoughts comes of the harmony of body and soul, of__ cuiniant _ _among the Elves.__

Among Men, that harmony was harder for an Elf to discern, though the song was always there. __Always there… always…_ _ He knew a goodly part of Aragorn's, and he was learning the infinitely complex melody that was Gimli; even Frodo's song was not wholly unknown to the Elf, though he would have needed far more time to begin to learn it in its fullness. __Always there… always there…__ Legolas felt himself falling into Théoden's rhythm, broken though it was, and the line of his song faltered slightly ere it adapted, like an instrument that had found its tuning note. __Child of wide fields and a sky even broader than the land… now shut away… shut away like Éomer… like a wing-clipped falcon in a cage… like me…_ _ It seemed to the prince a strange thing that his own wounding, which had cut so inexplicably deep and threatened him with utter dissolution, should aid him, but confronted with Théoden's pathetic state he felt now the tug of kindred suffering. Indeed, he had felt it with that first touch. _ _I know this song…! If I can grasp it… ah Théoden, I know you…!__

Something stang sharply against the side of his neck, and Legolas gasped, snarling up at Wormtongue, who replaced a needle in a vial and then slipped the vial into the folds of his robe. The drug stole through his system with marvelous swiftness, and the Elf wobbled where he crouched. __It does not matter, if only I can learn this… I begged Aragorn once to teach me of his people. I would learn of mortals, I said to him. Have I learned enough? Not long ago in Lothlórien I misjudged even Aragorn… do I dare to think I might learn this one Man's song so well in a moment?__ The world was growing grey, but Legolas clung to the song he hummed now, even as he felt himself collapsing towards the king. __Théoden king… remember…! Please remember…!__

Darkness.

***

"How long do you think this'll go on?"

"How should I know? What do I know of Ents, after all?" Merry sighed softly, stretching his arms as the two of them walked, describing a circular path all about the clearing where the Entmoot went on. And on… and on… __For two days now, and they don't show any sign of stopping!__ Merry thought. Though on second thought, the hobbit decided that he wouldn't know a 'farewell' from an elvish symphony in this case. The ponderously slow music of Entish speech, with its myriad intonations and drawn out syllables rose and fell in a rather mesmerizing manner, never stopping even during the night. The hobbits had spent the first night tossing and turning, unable to sleep until at last they had stuffed their cloaks in their ears and huddled up against each other for warmth.

__Do they ever get thirsty, I wonder?_ _ Merry thought. __I would, singing like that all day long!__ But so far as he could tell, no one had gone off to the nearby stream for a drink, unless Ents could sprout roots like trees and suck the water from the soil itself. And since everyone seemed to have forgotten about them, he and Pippin spent their time wandering about (though they never went too far from their established route) and talking quietly; or else they would sit for a time in silence. But whereas they might once have amused themselves with verbal sparring or games, neither felt the slightest inclination towards jest. There was something about the Ent-song that stilled the impulse towards humor, and though beautiful to hear, neither hobbit was insensitive to the wrath contained within that music.

"Do you think we'll see the others again?" Pippin asked suddenly, and Merry blinked, then cast a sidelong look at his companion. The other's expression was worried, yet also longing, as if the young Took wearied of lonely independence.

"I don't know, Pip," Merry replied, wishing that he had more answers for it seemed he had been saying that rather a lot of late. "I just hope they're all right."

"Me, too. At least Sam and Frodo had a chance to get away clean," Pippin replied, and heaved a sigh of his own. "And the others should be well enough. I mean, they weren't slain when we… left."

"Right." And that was the end of that conversation. __Why this silence between us?_ _ Merry wondered. __Surely that isn't right between hobbits!__ And yet all their conversations tended to fall into awkward pauses, ending in uncomfortable stretches of wordless speculation. Just then, a rustling and swishing–as of wind through a tree's branches–sounded behind them, and as the hobbits turned round, they saw Bregalad standing there behind them. The young–relatively speaking–Ent, having reached his decision ere moonrise of the first day, would periodically come to talk to them, and the hobbits had come to enjoy his company.

"Hmmm… A good day to you, young ones!" the Ent said, swaying like a tree in a strong wind, which the hobbits had decided must be the equivalent of a bow. "I trust you are not yet weary?"

"Not weary, really," Pippin answered, "But restless, if you understand me. It is hard to wait and wonder and not even know where the debate stands."

"Oh, I should not worry about that," Bregalad said with confidence. "It goes well, though I think it may be a few more days before we move on."

"On to what?"

"Not what! Although in truth, were this Entmoot to follow the usual course, we would move on to another matter. But this is an exceptional time, you know, and so when we move on, it shall be to a place–to Isengard–rather than to another conversation," the Ent said.

"Isengard… what of Saruman?" Merry asked, apprehensively. Not that he thought Saruman didn't deserve a clutch of angry Ents, but he __was__ a wizard, after all.

"What of him? Ents are older than he, Master-Meriadoc-Brandybuck-of-the-Shire-of-the-Hobbits," Bregalad said, eliciting a smile from both hobbits. Most of the Ents had accepted that they were sadly lacking in properly descriptive names, and Bregalad had done so more readily than most. Given the origin of his name, Merry supposed this was only to be expected. But he more than others tended to call the hobbits by their full "Entish" names, and the idiosyncrasy amused both Merry and Pippin. "Know, o hobbits, that a wizard may be a fell enemy, but even a wizard needs many years to destroy a forest's strength, and the Ents have that in full measure. Saruman shall give us no trouble in himself. I hope only that his orcs are there when we come to Orthanc!"

"Well, forgive me if I say I'd rather they weren't!" Pippin replied with a shudder. "I have had enough of them to last me a life-time. Or even three life-times!"

"Or even an elvish life-time," Merry added for good measure and got a solid nod of agreement out of his cousin.

"I do not blame you for that, and I have had more than enough of them for an Entish life, which is long indeed. But for the trees that they have destroyed…" A shiver ran through Bregalad, shaking his leafy hair as if a cold breeze had blown. "My dear rowans, all of them lying felled and dead, their voices lost forever… ! For that, they must pay the price! And for the bruises on your delicate hides as well they must be made to answer, and shall if ever we find them."

"But there must surely be many orcs in Isengard. Orcs and evil Men, if I remember Gandalf's tale aright," Pippin mused, and turned questioning eyes up to the Ent. "Would not the Ents be terribly outnumbered? How would you fight so many?"

A most astonishing and delightful flurry of trumpet-like noises answered these questions, and the hobbits darted startled looks at each other, for it took them a moment to realize that this unexpected sound was an outburst of laughter. When, after several minutes, the Ent managed to contain himself, Bregalad bent downward and scooped them up in his long arms, raising them to eye level so that he could look straight at them, and he smiled enigmatically. "Ah, how indeed! You shall see, my hobbits. Very soon indeed you shall see!"

***

            Éomer turned away from the bars and his bleak contemplation of the opposite wall at the sound of movement behind him. Legolas lay with the marshal's cloak folded beneath his head as a pillow, twitching slightly as if in response to a dream, but otherwise he lay precisely as Éomer had placed him some few hours ago. How long ago precisely it had been since the guards had dumped the Elf's motionless body into the cell with him, he knew not. __Long enough, perhaps, for whatever drug is in him to begin to dissipate, it seems.__ A cursory examination of the Prince of Mirkwood had revealed naught unexpected save for the puncture wound to his neck. It had bled little, being but a slight scratch, yet if it had felled an Elf, then clearly it was a potent potion he had been given. Éomer had raised the other in his arms, marveling at how light the elf seemed, and done what he could to make him comfortable in the rude surroundings. __At least his shoulder seems intact. But when shall he wake?_ _ For a time, he had waited impatiently, thinking that the occasional motions might indicate the Elf was near to waking. But though he had called him a few times, naught had occurred, and at length, Legolas had lain quite still save for his breathing.

__Now though, he has had time enough to recover, I should think. Perhaps he shall wake._ _ And though he would be disappointed to learn otherwise, the diversion that these new spasms provided would at least break the monotony and give him something to do other than brood. __At least for a few minutes,__ Éomer thought as he went and managed to perch sideways on the bench next to the Elf. Legolas's breathing grew quicker, and he seemed to flinch as the marshal gently shook him, hoping to elicit a response of some sort. "Legolas? Legolas, can you hear me?" he asked, pausing. The Elf hissed, and his expression twisted in a grimace. "Legolas!"

"Wormtongue!" the prince snarled as his eyes flew open. Éomer had no time to react as he was seized suddenly and the Elf, moving with incredible speed given the dead start, launched himself into the marshal.

Éomer yelped in surprise as the hard stone floor greeted his back and he winced as his head struck hard. The weight of the Elf–which seemed now far less light than it had before–landed on his chest, half-crushing the air out of him, and he choked as the prince rammed his knuckles into Éomer's throat with force just short of that needed collapse his windpipe. The pressure remained as the Elf pinned him there, and in spite of his breathless astonishment, the young man managed to gasp, "Le…'o'as!" At the same time, he grabbed at the Elf's wrist desperately, but Legolas would not be moved. The strength in that arm was the more surprising for how slender the Elf seemed, but that was not what roused Éomer's fear. The blank, unseeing look in the other's bright green eyes was terrifying, as if the Elf moved now in a dream, and knew not what he did. "…'golas!"

Despite the strangled sound of his voice, the prince blinked, shaking his head sharply as he drew a deep breath. After another agonizing moment, during which Éomer tried to keep his vision from tunneling, the Elf gazed down at him, staring, and at last recognition lit his face. "Éomer?"

"Uhn… !" He could not nod without hurting himself, and the desperate exhalation was all he could manage, but chagrin quickly spread over Legolas's fair face. Immediately, the hand on his throat jerked back, and Éomer gasped, gulping air like a landed fish as he reached up to clutch his throat automatically.

"What is this?" the Elf murmured confusedly, glancing about at his surroundings ere he turned back to his suffering companion.

"I … know not!" Éomer gasped, feeling at the new bruising below his adam's apple. Closing his eyes tightly, he concentrated only on breathing, on the simple act of pulling air into his starved lungs. "A good… strike…" the Third Marshal allowed at length, pushing up onto his elbows with a grimace for the headache that resulted from that movement. Gingerly, he felt at the lump forming on the back of his head and sighed. __I suppose I was fortunate I sat alongside him, else, given the shallowness of the cell, I might have struck the bars at a bad angle!__ And given the strength and speed of Legolas' reaction, such an impact could easily have snapped his neck. Looking up at the Elf, he offered a slight smile to show no real harm had been done. "A very good strike!"

"I am sorry, my friend," Legolas said now, his face concerned. "I thought… my dreams have unsettled me of late. Such a thing should not be!"

"My own dreams are none too sunny, either," Éomer dismissed the apology as Legolas stood and reached down to help him to rise. The marshal clambered to his feet, and then watched as the Elf sank down onto the cell's wooden shelf, seeming rather unsteady.

"You do not understand," the prince murmured softly, and an edge of desperation entered his tone.

"He drugged you. I saw the mark," Éomer replied in what he hoped was a calming tone. He shrugged slightly. "You should not judge yourself so harshly!"

"Nay, Éomer, 'tis worse than it seems, for I am not the only one to fall to his needle!" Legolas said darkly, and glanced at his new cellmate. "Wormtongue drugs Théoden at night, and I know not what he uses. That may explain some of the king's pliancy, but there is more–"

"Wait! You saw this?" Éomer asked, interrupting in his astonishment. "How did this come to pass? Surely you did nothing so foolish as to follow Wormtongue…"

"Gríma said he would bring me to the king, and so he did. But it was no summons of Théoden's, but the councilor's invention, as I now perceive. He had but one purpose: to convince me that Éorl's House is laid low at last, and shall not rise again to trouble those who would take its place! And to prove that an Elf has little hope against him!"

"Many have tried to break Wormtongue's hold, Legolas, and none have succeeded. Do not let it trouble you so much that even your dreams are not free of that serpent!" Éomer replied, though he grimaced as he spoke. _ _So, the good councilor drips poison in his lord's veins, does he? It does not surprise me, yet I wonder that I never thought of that before. Béma, but men can be blind!__ With a disgusted shake of his head, and a wince for the pain that that hasty movement elicited, the marshal sank down onto the bench beside his companion. "I should not have thought Wormtongue would be so rash. It needs little wit as it is to recognize his hand in all of this. That he should tell you so much bodes ill indeed."

"Éomer, hear me. Your peril… our peril… is greater than you think," Legolas said urgently, and the Third Marshal raised a brow in skeptical question. The Elf's green eyes captured his, and for an unnerving instant, Éomer felt as though Legolas sought to turn him inside out, so deeply did that gaze pierce and probe, seeking he knew not what. Just ere Éomer would have looked away, though, the other released him with a slight grimace of concern. "Hear me," he repeated, "I am not as you are, for I am not a Man. Since Boromir's death, I have struggled under a shadow that has troubled my heart incessantly, and wounded as I was, I thought that darkness my own. But as I have begun to heal, I have become aware that not all shadows are of my own casting: some come from another source that dwells here, in the heart of Rohan. Saruman's will it is, I doubt it not, but even a wizard may find it no small task to affect the court of Rohan so noticeably at a distance."

"Wormtongue is his agent, of that I am certain. Thus do the wizard's ill designs become reality in our land," Éomer replied, with a touch of impatient puzzlement, for in truth he was not certain that he knew whereof the Elf spoke, nor for what end he aimed.

"Gríma son of Gálmód is no mere spy, Third Marshal!" Legolas spoke urgently against his doubtful tone, and those green eyes caught his again. This time, the Elf did not let him go, and it was Éomer who, at length, looked away, feeling oddly disturbed by the other's evident concern. Legolas sighed softly, perhaps with disappointment, and then continued on in a low voice, "Creatures there are that serve the Dark Lord that are little more than his malice wrought in living form. They bear the mark of his hatred as a brand, for they are work of his foul hands. Gríma bears also the mark of his master… and his maker. Saruman has not Sauron's power, perhaps, and he has not made of Gríma anything other than a Man, but where Wormtongue stands, there lies a deeper darkness. Through him, the will of Saruman is felt strongly, for that will is in Gríma. Even as Sauron pours his will into his creatures, driving them to fulfill his commands, the councilor has been… filled… infused with Saruman's will and he gains thereby a portion of his master's strength and even his gifts. Working through his creature, eating away at what was once a free man, Saruman spreads his evil throughout Edoras to consume others."

__What is Gríma then?_ _ The question arose in Éomer's mind, but he instantly dismissed it. For his purposes, it mattered not what he was, but what he did, and whether he could be stopped. __Saruman's creature, filled with a wizard's power…__ That touched something, and for a while, the Third Marshal sought to recapture the memory and bring it to conscious recollection. __Gríma son of Gálmód, who ever served without distinction. And suddenly he gained a voice… a voice and a tongue not to be challenged. I wonder! Could that be it? And why are some immune, while others bow before it?__ But such speculation in the end did not help him, and so he set it aside, fixing instead upon another of Legolas's comments. "'Consume,' you say. How?"

"As Men are ever corrupted and consumed: through their fears and their weaknesses. Sometimes even through strength suborned, turned inward against he who possesses it," Legolas added, and cast a significant look at him even as Éomer felt his stomach clench. _ _Béma's blood, my sister!_ _ Éowyn was alone out there with this… creature… loose and unfettered by any. __Elfhelm is gone, and I am imprisoned, and Théodred is… dead._ _ That loss still cut hard, but now it was secondary as the fear that he realized he had suppressed ever since Legolas had been thrown in with him broke free at last with shattering clarity.

__King of the Winds_ , _he thought, _ _she has stood for too long alone. By choice at first, but now… now she has no one, not even Legolas! I had not thought Wormtongue would be able to separate them so swiftly! What might she do? I fear to learn how Wormtongue's malice shall subvert that strength, as Legolas says.__ Blue eyes narrowed in grim contemplation as Éomer's mouth became a taut line of tight-lipped anger and fear, and his jaw was clenched.

Beside him, Legolas gazed worriedly at him, and he felt the other's eyes searching him. "There is naught we can do now," the Elf said at length. "And yet, however dark, there may be some hope left: Saruman's dominance is not so complete as the Dark Lord's, after all." Legolas seemed to chide him gently. "Gríma remains a mortal man, though one bent now and bound to his master. Destroy the master, and the councilor shall fall with him!"

"But how does one destroy a wizard? And what of Théoden?" Éomer demanded, only barely reining in his temper that was born of fear too terrible to show. "If he, too, is bound–"

"I know not that he is completely bound, nor do I think that it is the same sort of bondage. Gríma's service is willing, whereas Théoden still fights, or why else should Wormtongue continue to drug him? And in any case, is he not your kin? He has the strength in him–he must!–to break free. If he can be brought back to himself, made to remember himself, then perhaps it shall be enough. Alas, I have done what I can in spite of Wormtongue's intervention. What shall happen now, I cannot hazard a guess but our peril waxes with the hours. For Wormtongue, in folly or overconfidence, has revealed himself plainly to me, and so stands now in peril himself."

"Then doubtless he shall seek the earliest moment to be rid of us both," Éomer said grimly. "I know not why Wormtongue should put us together, but you may be certain that it is for no good reason. He thinks to use the two of us in his schemes, and I fear what part Éowyn may be given against her will!" He squeezed his eyes shut against despair. "Béma," he murmured, scarcely aware that he spoke aloud, "if I could have but one wish–"

"Say it not!" Legolas interjected sharply. "I hear it in your voice, and I urge you: be cautious! Do not abandon your duty to your passion, my lord."

"I shall not. But when the two are conjoined… well then!" Éomer replied in a low voice, and even he was surprised by the dark lust in his tone: a lust for vengeance, for it seemed to him that it was already too late, and that he could hope for little else.

"Gríma is not one man's affair, but a nation's," Legolas said, clearly warning him. "This matter touches you too closely."

"Any who fall under this shadow are too close to it!" Éomer sighed. Then, shooting a quick glance at the Elf out of the corners of his eyes, the marshal suggested, "Sleep, if you need it. I know you have had a hard journey, and it may be some while ere the drug leaves you entirely. I shall wake you should aught of import occur."

Legolas regarded the other for a long moment, and Éomer knew that the other was not deceived–that the Elf heard all too clearly the dark thoughts that lay behind his words. After a long pause, the prince said softly but firmly, "Éowyn went to her chambers and that was the last that I saw of her. Wormtongue let her go, Éomer! Take that for a comfort and hope for a change of the tides."

Éomer said naught to that, only cocked a pale brow at the Elf, and though he sensed Legolas's worried disappointment, there was also a resigned acceptance in the way that the other turned away with a sigh. Clearly, the prince knew intransigence when he saw it.

For his part, Legolas closed his eyes once more against the distraction of his surroundings, and he shrugged carefully, feeling the pull of healing muscles. _ _I have done my best, and though it may not be enough, for the moment I can do no more, for Éomer or for any other._ _And I have need of rest… not sleep, but a time to order all that is within me against this threat, for if it goes ill–or worse, rather!–I would not meet death unprepared!__

***

Éowyn knelt in the middle of her room with a small box laid across her knees. __Be thou brave, daughter mine, and go now to thy brother, for he shall need thee, and thou shalt need him!_ _ Her mother's last words to her, all those years ago, and the child she had been had wanted to please her mother so badly.

__But I was too afraid to move. I knew she would leave us, and I could not understand why!__ She smiled slightly. __At the time, I knew not that it was not her choice, that death comes to us all in time._ _ Théodwyn had understood, she thought, for her mother had made an effort to smile, and then held out a hand to her daughter. Éowyn would have clung to it, but that Théodwyn had said painfully, "See child! See this ring? Take it, and keep it safe for me… until I should need it again, when I see thy father once more."

Éowyn had managed to take the gold band, set with an emerald and a ruby cut to seem as though they twined about each other, from her mother's hand, and Théodwyn had pressed it into her own before she had sent her away for the last time. In all the years since her mother's untimely death, Éowyn had kept the ring with her, though she had never worn it. __For it was hers, and I took it to keep it for her, not to wear it myself.__ But whenever she felt in need of comfort, she would take it out to look at, and to remember her mother's face more clearly.

Tonight, though, she felt in need of comfort as never before, for Wormtongue's double-barbed words still rang in her ears: __I would speak with you later.__ Éowyn felt her cheeks flush hotly, remembering the imperious, disdainful tone; Wormtongue had seemed almost as a parent ordering a disobedient child about. __But I doubt not that what he wants of me is hardly paternal in nature!__ Indeed, she knew well that he pursued her, hunted her like some beast of the field. And when he caught her… That scarcely bore thinking on, but Éowyn knew she could afford no illusions tonight.

For years she had schemed and plotted, seeking some way to drive the serpent from Edoras. Her resistance was built about little things, for a woman had not a man's prestige, but she had grown adept at making the most of small opportunities: a word here or there sufficed to spread rumors throughout the court, and though men might at first dismiss the tales of wives or servants, eventually they would begin to wonder. And if the rumors persisted long enough, and were consistent with others and with their own fears, then even the great would begin to believe until the rumors became fact. As in truth, they were, for Éowyn never spread lies. Her own network of spies—lower placed, naturally, than she might wish—brought her pieces of information which to one accustomed to the rhythm of the household meant much more than they might seem to one whose concerns lay mainly with affairs of state or the field of battle.

But there were some few among the latter who honored her judgment, and to them she would pass her warnings. Rarely could she forestall completely Wormtongue's plans, but given warning and due consideration, she could usually at least insure that they were public knowledge. And occasionally she could, through the influence she exerted upon the court's atmosphere, unsettle his plots enough to turn aside their worst effects. Wormtongue knew all of this, of course, and she had ever to work to conceal her sources and to replace them whenever he discovered her informants, but thus far the contest between them was at a stalemate.

But that might well end tonight, Éowyn thought, feeling a flutter of fear in her breast. For she had never been caught before—not with her shirt red as the saying went. Nothing she did went unnoticed, and eventually all her efforts came to light, but events discovered after the fact were far less dangerous to her than a half-achieved plot. __I was too careless tonight! But I had no choice, for Elfhelm is gone, and Háma too closely watched! And now I may have doomed Legolas along with me, for I fear Wormtongue's intentions. Has he already convinced the king that he is a conspirator even as Éomer? What nonsense, and yet I have just given him proof! What made him go to the dungeons tonight? Or did he learn of the warden's 'food poisoning'?_ _

In the end, she gave up speculating, for it mattered not how Wormtongue had tumbled to them. __He may have come only to gloat over Éomer, I know not. We are caught in the snare at last. At least I sent my messengers out before I was caught. If only one arrives at Helm's Deep ere Saruman's army does! Not that it shall help us, but at least Elfhelm and Erkenbrand, if they survive the rout, would know the truth. They might then muster enough resistance to salvage something out of the ruins, even if the Mark falls. And if only others are freer than they, perhaps we might still prevent our demise...__

A knock sounded, and Éowyn quickly shut the box's lid and hid it away in her trunk. The knock was repeated, and she crossed quickly to the door, steeling herself. __I am Éowyn, daughter of Théodwyn of the House of Éorl. My father was Éomund, Marshal of the Mark. I bear the shield of the Mark, and I shall not fear a snake!__ It had been her litany since she had taken up the ancient office of shieldmaiden, and usually it helped to calm her. Tonight, it served only to mask her fear, but so long as Wormtongue did not see it, she would be content. __Think of Éomer! Think of Legolas, and do not flinch, lass, for their straits are worse than yours!__ With that reminder, she pulled the door open and greeted Wormtongue with a frosty silence.

"Good evening once again, fair maid," the odious man offered.

"Speak your piece here and then be gone, for I have no mind for games," Éowyn responded shortly.

"Then we shall play none. Your brother and the Elf share a cell tonight, and soon the court shall be arrayed against them. I fear that even now, word spreads of the treachery of the Third Marshal. And as for the Elf? Well, we all know that an Elf is not to be trusted, particularly not the sorcerers among them. Some there are who shall want vengeance… perhaps you know them, even, for they let you into the dungeons tonight, and their horror of that error goes deep!" Éowyn stiffened, aghast at what she heard though she supposed she ought to have expected no less. "I fear, Éowyn, that even duty may not restrain their anger, for Legolas attempted to ensorcel the king when he came before him. I know: I have seen it, and Théoden shall remember it in the morning."

"Liar! You arranged that it would seem so! You must have enchanted him yourself, for the Elf is no sorcerer!" Éowyn spat.

"Ah, but who shall know better? No one in Edoras, surely." Which specific qualification made her uneasy. Had he discovered her messengers? And if so, then he must be very confident indeed if he cared not who knew outside of the court. "The love of the Éorlingas for their king is deep and abiding, Éowyn, and woe to him who rouses it against him! I fear that something may happen in the night… and would that not be a pity? For however treacherous, I would not have so unusual a guest murdered in his sleep, nor your brother indicted for assisting the enemy…"

"You would not dare!" Éowyn hissed, though her heart sank, for she knew well that he would. __And so he comes now to me… Béma help me, he comes now for me…!_ _ The councilor had an arm braced against the door so that she could not close it and shut him out, and there was a disgusting leer on his face.

"I dare nothing, Éowyn. I do. I act. And I tell you now that without a very convincing witness on their behalf, something unfortunate shall happen to your brother."

"And what of Legolas?"

"The Elf? I care little. He may survive the night or he may not. I may yet be generous with him. But your brother… he is long in his rebellion. He deserves to die for his crimes, this all men know. Elfhelm is not here, who might defend him. There is but one witness left. Oh yes, I know how she plots on his behalf, but politics smoothes over such discrepancies quite nicely—or might, did she but convince me of her sincerity. Then perhaps I might be able to shield both her and her brother."

There fell a silence, and Éowyn struggled against herself. __So we come now to the point. Can I even think what I must say and do?_ _ The words seemed to catch in her throat, held there by her pride that would not yield to any. __But Éomer!__ The vision of her brother's lifeless body hung clearly before her eyes, and she wanted to keen her agony to the night as once the women of the Mark had done in the days long gone and almost forgotten. __We were a wilder people then. Now we are too civilized, and we compromise all!_ _ "What do you want?" she finally managed in a low, sick tone.

Wormtongue raised his heavy-lidded eyes to her own for a brief moment, studying her face ere he let them wander her tall form, and she felt a shiver. His hand lay heavily upon her shoulder of a sudden, and she felt herself frozen in place by a horror that was the worse for having been long-wrought. __Éomer_ … _

"Let us discuss that more privately, Éowyn," he murmured. "Will you not let me in?" __This must not be!__ Alas, despair, however deep, could but witness reality, not change it. Éowyn's decision was made–by her or for her, it mattered no longer.

***

            A chance guard on his round frowned as he noted the light spilling from one of the doors far up the corridor, and he quickened his pace, wondering who was abroad. But ere he came close enough to see aught, the door shut again, and for all that he looked, there was no one in the hall.

* * *

Gríma/Éowyn exchange:

            Gríma: "Foolish, Éowyn. You do not help your brother.

            Éowyn: "Do not mock me, councilor!"

            Gríma: "Bold words, my child!"

            Éowyn: "I do not belong to you! Not now and not ever, foul adder!"

Lot of liberty taken here: I have the words from a word list, basic (really basic) grammar from an online course, and I have a smattering of German syntax. All three ingredients mixed well and shaken, resulting in the above (very) faux-Old-English-cum-Rohirric conversation.

Sites used: <http://www.ucalgary.ca/UofC/eduweb> (grammar)

<http://www.mun.ca/Ansaxdat/vocab/wordlist.html> (word list)


	17. All the King's Horses...

"This horse finds every patch of uneven ground!" Aragorn sighed softly and gripped his companion the harder.

"I assure you," he replied, "that you imagine things, Gimli! Hasufel has his pride, for he was foaled in Rohan and knows this land. If you find a horse with a smoother gait, I should pay you in gold for him!" That might have elicited a grunt, but it was difficult to be certain as the wind tore at their words, whisking anything less than a shout away. The Ranger felt the Dwarf's diaphragm contract, but that might have been due to Hasufel's lifting slightly to clear a patch of stone. Gimli had awakened that morning ill-tempered from the fever and dizziness that assailed him, but Aragorn judged him well enough to continue on at a good pace.

Of course, the Dwarf's dislike of horses made it difficult for him to push on at what the Ranger would normally have considered a good pace, even with Gimli seated safely within the circle of his arms before him. Equally, however, Gimli's pride made it impossible to suggest that he tie him in place for security's sake. __At least I know he shall be well enough,_ _ Aragorn thought with no small relief. Given another two days, the Dwarf would likely be as fit as ever, Durin's folk being a hardy race that did not succumb easily or for long to illness. In truth, Legolas still worried Aragorn more than Gimli, for the nature of his injury meant that it was in the Elf's hands to better or worsen his state. __Let us hope that he has found a way to help himself!__

Whatever Gimli's complaints about their mount, Hasufel ran swift and smooth over the plains of Rohan. And if the horse was not one of the near legendary __mearas__ , still, he was a worthy beast and Aragorn at least had horsemanship enough to appreciate his efforts. Indeed, for all that the Ranger continued to rein him in, Hasufel, after a few minutes' even speed, would begin to accelerate again. Given his head, he would doubtless make the journey at a gallop, but there was no point in causing Gimli to suffer overmuch. For beneath the gruff complaints, there was a definite edge of fear to the Dwarf's tone that he could devote no energy to suppressing. __Not while he battles this poison_ ,_ Aragorn thought grimly. __And yet we need haste, for though Éomer said naught overtly, there is something gravely wrong in Rohan. No horse herds in the Eastfold, and a new law that goes against former custom.__ And a note in Éomer's voice that, reviewed now countless times in his mind, made the Ranger deeply uneasy. __What passes at Edoras and elsewhere that could teach one so fearless as he to fear?__

By Aragorn's calculations, Legolas would have reached the court yesterday, if the company had ridden through the night. _ _And if we press hard, we shall see Edoras by sunrise tomorrow._ _ He glanced down at the top of Gimli's head, hesitating an instant on his friend's behalf, ere he came to a decision. " _ _Hep! Gá, Hasufel!__ " With a snort and a toss of his head, the horse fairly leapt to obey, and Gimli's curse was lost in the wind. The day waxed and waned with but one stop, and as night fell, still Hasufel bore them ever homeward to Edoras.

***

            Éomer opened his eyes and sighed softly, grimacing at the crick in his neck. The arm that pillowed his head was numb from lack of circulation, and his legs felt cramped and stiff. Injuries inflicted by Legolas aside, a night spent in a dungeon cell barely longer than Éomer himself was tall, and with but a hard plank for a bed, guaranteed discomfort. Particularly since he and the Elf had to share the plank, quarters were close indeed. Éomer had not actually intended to sleep at all that night, but the cell's oppressive atmosphere had worn him down more thoroughly and swiftly than a hard-fought battle, and in the end he had succumbed to the siren song of sleep.

Alas, as he had lain curled up on the bench, cursing the splinters, his mind had immediately begun to tumble through the events of the past few days with frenetic intensity. Éowyn's pale face and Gríma's hated one kept reappearing just as he thought to drop off into slumber, dragging him back to painful wakefulness. As a result, he was now thoroughly exhausted but unable to lie still any longer. Levering himself up on one elbow, the Third Marshal clenched his teeth as his headache returned in full force, and he glanced blearily at his cellmate.

__Well_ ,_ he thought, __no changes there.__ Legolas sat cross-legged with his feet tucked up under himself, hands laid upon his knees, seemingly having never moved even once during the night. Éomer had wakened several times at odd hours, and the sight of the Elf staring unblinking at the wall beyond the bars had been… eerie. Whether he slept or sat entranced, the Third Marshal had not the slightest idea. More, he knew not whether it would be safe to rouse him in less than dire need.

__For do they not say that one ought not to wake a sleep-walker?__ Éomer wondered, wishing he knew whether the Elf suffered from a similar affliction. But since he did not, he would assume that it was best to leave Legolas to his own elven devices and let him wake on his own. __Why does he not blink? He does when he is conscious, so one assumes that he needs to at times. How does he manage without his eyes drying out?_ _ Éomer gave a soft grunt as he sat up and stretched carefully to work the kinks out of his muscles. Such trivial questions were a sure sign of his mind's attempt to occupy itself, and he brushed them aside irritably, considering his own state of being.

Though no light filtered into the dungeon, he was fairly certain that it was morning, and his stomach complained of its emptiness. The guards had not fed him since his incarceration, though they had brought him water. Éomer knew better than to let himself become dehydrated for fear of drugs, and so he had drunk what was given him without complaint and hoped for the best. Now, though, since he had decided to leave Legolas alone, he had problems of a more immediate and less weighty concern than poison in his drink. For the lavatory area was on Legolas's end of the cell, and Éomer's bladder informed him that he needed to use it __now__.

With a soft sigh, the young man rose and moved forward a pace to stand just on the edge of the elf's field of vision. Still, Legolas did not move, and Éomer pursed his lips, hoping that the prince would not mistake him for an enemy as he passed before him. After yesterday's demonstration of elvish martial prowess, Éomer was not particularly eager to startle the other into a second violent reaction. But nature called, and so, holding his breath, he stepped in front of the elf, half-expecting to be thrown up against the bars before he could blink. But nothing happened, and after a moment, Éomer let himself breathe once more and continued the short distance past Legolas to the hole in the ground that served as a latrine.

__Four more days_ , _he thought distressedly. __Four more before a trial, and who knows how long Wormtongue may drag it out? I shall be happy to see the execution grounds if only to see the sky!__ That was a depressing indicator of how low his spirits could sink, and Éomer sternly berated himself for self-pity. Unfortunately, thoughts of Éowyn or Théoden only woke a chill and helpless anxiety that seemed to him worse than his own grim future. __Would that I could simply not think!__ But that, too, was an impossibility, and Éomer shook his blond head sharply as he finished his business, trying to jar himself out of his bad mood.

Alas, the quick movement only gave him double vision as the pain in his head stabbed at him, and Éomer hissed softly, wincing. Turning much more slowly out of respect for the headache, he took a very curtailed stride forward to grasp the bars, leaning against them wearily. __I wonder how Elfhelm fares. If he took most of the King's Muster with him, he might last for a while, or at least retreat to Helm's Deep in good order. I know not if I can hope for more than that.__

Éomer had been born and bred to a tradition of war and horsemanship, and he had studied his sword-craft since he was ten. He knew very well that if something did not change soon, then the Mark was lost. Indeed, even if something utterly unexpected occurred–should Gríma die—O happy thought!—and the king rise this very morning, for example–there were forces at work that they could not control. In his absence, the Eastfold was under Éothain's command, and though Éothain was a competent, hard-nosed sort of fellow, he lacked the charisma to lead well in time of trouble. And then there was Anórien, which was prostrated before the Enemy. Cair Andros and Ithilien fought the tide, but both forces had lost significant numbers at Osgiliath and elsewhere this summer, and he knew not whence Minas Tirith would draw replacements.

__If they can find them at all. The Gondorrim are a valiant people, but they have been losing Anórien for two years and more now, and I think the break may have come. Sauron could send his creatures through the fens and over that land unchecked, and we would have no way to know it ere they reached the Eastfold!_ _ At least there were no shepherds or horse-herders still at large in that region, for sensing the darkening of their fortunes, he had withdrawn them all to relative safety early last summer after Osgiliath's fall.

"Someone comes again." The voice behind him spoke suddenly and without preamble, and Éomer jumped in his startlement, whirling to face his elvish companion, ignoring the pain. Legolas had not moved a muscle, but his eyes were now closed, and there was a different quality to his silence: a listening attentiveness that bespoke a fine concentration. Éomer glanced almost automatically back over his shoulder, though he supposed he would need to wait for a time ere the visitor or visitors arrived given the elf's acute hearing. "A light step… running… tripping, almost… a stutter… no armor, nothing to sound against aught else…" The Elf's eyes, green as Rohan's fields and greener, even, opened once more, and there was a glimmer of dread in them as Legolas looked to Éomer.

"Who is it?" Éomer asked, feeling premonition stir unpleasantly, and his gut knotted up painfully. __No…_ _ The footsteps reached the marshal's ears, and he felt every muscle tense. __Too light… too light to be a man…__

"I think," the Elf said with manifest reluctance, "it must be—" __Please let it not be–!__ Éomer squeezed his eyes shut as the footsteps skidded round the last corner "—Éowyn!" That last was addressed past him, and Éomer turned slowly round to see his sister standing there once more. Swathed in a dress that drew out the deep blue of her eyes, she seemed very pale, and her eyes stared at him with a mixture of relief and agony. Dark circles lay like woodland shadows beneath her eyes, which were a bit swollen as if with weeping, and her hand shook as she stepped forward and reached through the bars for her brother.

"You are alive!" she murmured, reaching up to lay her hand to the side of his face as Éomer hastily thrust his left hand through a convenient gap to catch her shoulder as she swayed unsteadily. And though her tone was enough to break a man's heart, Éomer heard the terrible relief in it.

"Éowyn…" he breathed, his own voice sounding suspiciously husky.

"Alive!" she repeated, as if to reassure herself, and then gave a little laugh that ended in a sob as she bowed her head. More sobs followed, and she began to tremble like a leaf.

" _ _Béma ahredde ús!__ Éowyn! Éowyn!" Éomer felt something akin to panic come over him, and he grabbed her hard through the bars. " _ _Éowyn!__ " he cried, giving her a rough shake.

What happened next, he was not precisely certain, but there was a sharp __crack!__ and he found himself suddenly gazing at the wall to his left, breathing hard, and his right cheek ached and throbbed. Someone clutched his arm urgently, and as he slowly turned back to gaze at his sister he realized that it was Legolas who held him. Éowyn stood there gripping the bars in a white-knuckled grip, and her face was expressionless now, eyes hooded and cold as ice as she stared at him.

"Never speak of this," she said in a low voice that would brook no argument. "And never again let me see you panic, Éomer. I cannot bear it!" She raised her eyes to his once more, and for all the flatness of her voice, the haunted, pleading look in those eyes told the true tale. Éomer reached up and touched his cheek, frowning as he felt at the cut there, and he glanced down at her hands once more.

"Mother's ring," he murmured softly, and wondered at the sudden divorce of his feelings. He could name every one that passed through his heart and soul, yet it seemed that he had suddenly lost the ability to feel them. __And perhaps I should be glad of that, for else I know not what I might do!__ "What are the terms?"

"I told him I would have none of his crafting or purchase, only this one," Éowyn replied calmly, as if she were discussing the cost of flour for the kitchens. "He agreed to that, and said that in the morning he would see that I was let in to see you again. Any day I like, at any time, even."

"So for the groom price. What of the bride's price?" he demanded, and Éowyn's eyes flitted away almost nervously. "Éowyn…"

"A little thing, brother… so very little in the end, for I have not your wealth to draw upon anymore." Her voice grew tight with suppressed tears and humiliated rage. "Just a little blood… he promised to take care if I bled too much after…" Black specks danced in Éomer's vision, and he felt his legs turn to water. Legolas's hand on his arm went quickly round his waist and he felt the Elf's shoulder brace him. Sucking in air, he shook his head sharply and willed himself to keep to his feet, to look at her once more. Éowyn stared back with no small concern, and she grasped his hands suddenly. "Are you well?"

"Can you even ask me that?" he demanded, dazed and incredulous.

"How could I not? Éomer, this is the price of your life, do you understand? There is no other way, and you must live long enough–" She shook her head sharply, cutting herself off. What she meant by 'long enough,' Éomer did not know, and in his preoccupation, it slipped past him unnoticed in the wake of her next words: "Were it not for you, I would have slit his throat and gone to the scaffold happily! Were it not that you are both here, under his power, I would have done it last night. Do not then waste this!"

"And so instead, I shall spend my days in this pit, cursing fortune that I live at all!" He should not have said that, but the words were out, flying past his lips in an instant, and Éowyn's expression grew taut as a strung bow. Releasing him, she stepped away, drawing herself up with forlorn dignity, and before his very eyes he saw her armor herself once more. Of a sudden, there simply was no more pain, no more feeling, no remorse: there was only Éowyn standing straight, cool as steel and as pliant. "Éowyn!" he began again, but she shook her head, commanding with that gesture his silence.

"Rest, brother. You are overwrought. I shall come to see you again soon, at least once a day. And be certain to eat, both of you. Good day." Nodding politely to Legolas, she turned then and strode away, and Éomer heard her footsteps retreat down the corridors.

"Éomer?" Legolas' voice at his side was soft and filled with grieving concern, but the marshal scarcely heard him. __Éowyn… ah Béma, Éowyn!__ Éomer thrust the Elf aside, turned, went to his knees, and promptly threw up. There was little enough to vomit, but it was enough to make him feel worse than ever and he slammed a fist into the stone wall, not caring that he cut himself in doing so. Any pain was preferable to the nauseated horror that filled him, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the very real possibility of tears.

He felt another's hands upon him, felt himself drawn into the shelter of another's embrace, and it was a measure of his discomposure that he did not shove the other away. Words sung softly in a strange tongue reached him over the sound of his own ragged breathing, and in spite of himself, he felt himself falling under their spell. Though he clung to the hurt, his anguish diminished somewhat and the raw edge of hysteria was muted into a sort of pained acceptance. He felt a hand touch his face, reach around to cradle his head gently, and a lassitude descended the likes of which he had never experienced before. "Rest, Éomer," Legolas said gently, letting his song die for a moment. "I will wake you when she returns." Unable to resist the compulsion laid upon him, Éomer let himself drift away on the tide of an elvish melody.

***

And as Legolas soothed Éomer, Éowyn went straight to the kitchens. The women there murmured politely to her, but they quickly perceived her black mood and made haste to move out of her way for she did not slow nor look left or right. Edoras was a great city, and had many mouths to feed in the king's household alone, so the kitchens were correspondingly vast. And since she had been fifteen, they had been Éowyn's responsibility. Now she went and gathered the account sheets and summoned the headwoman to her in the medicinal storehouse. "Have you seen to my instructions?" she demanded.

"Aye, my lady. All that you have asked be stored away, I have laid up against need."

"Good. Then I wish for you to procure the following herbs, for I think we may also need them," Éowyn said, and began reading from the list she had made for herself this morning, before her visit to the dungeons. The woman listened intently all the while, committing her lady's words to memory, for she did not read. And when Éowyn stopped, the headwoman nodded, though she frowned slightly as well.

"All shall be as you command, my lady."

"Have you all of it firmly in your memory?"

"Of course, my lady!" the other replied, frowning at that uncustomary question.

"Very good then. See to your business, then," Éowyn replied, tucking her list into her kirtle.

"I shall begin today, since it seems urgent. But we have as much as we need of the last item, if I may say so–"

"You may not." The finality in Éowyn's voice cut the other off brutally, and the headwoman sucked in a breath as she gazed up at the cold face of her mistress.

"As you wish, then," she murmured, baffled by the other's expression. "May I go, my lady?"

"Please do so." Éowyn waited until the woman had gone, then she shut the door to the storehouse and locked it with a large key. Then, assured of her privacy from all, including her betrothed, she sank down onto a barrel of grain and wept as tremors shook her. __How did it come to this?__ she wondered, fairly dizzy with shock. Éomer's reaction had been worse than any rage she might have imagined, and guilt and doubt racked her. __Should I have refused? Should I have let him carry out his threats?_ _ But in her heart, she knew that she could never have permitted that. Indeed, she had tried for years to find a way to free herself from the threat of just this bit of blackmail, but so long as she loved her brother, Wormtongue could always use him against her.

"Your brother lives on my patience, and your good behavior, my dear," Gríma had warned her last night. "He is one word away from a very... lingering... death. Do not think, either, that ridding yourself of me shall save him, for I have had much time to devise this." And liar though she knew him to be, she had had no choice but to believe him in this, nor had she been able to refuse him. If Éomer were to fall in battle, that would be one thing; she would grieve, of course, yet a warrior's death was honorable and she could ask no more for herself in days so dark as these.

But for him to be tormented in the darkness of his cell, to die a little each time should she refuse her master's commands, and finally to be tossed to the pyre without ceremony—that she could not have endured if there were aught she could do to prevent it. Indeed, she would sooner let him face the hangman, for she knew he could endure that with dignity, and at least all of Edoras would learn how a good man faced unjust death. Not that any such considerations eased the sting of her brother's recrimination, and she clapped a hand over her mouth so her sobs would not attract attention. __Curse you, Gríma Wormtongue, whom I must now call 'husband'!__ For a moment, her mind went utterly blank as she struggled against herself to suppress her memories. She had heard that some women bled profusely after the first time, and sometimes that was quite dangerous. Éowyn supposed others would consider her fortunate that she had not, but for herself, she would have been happy never to waken to this day.

__But I have, and the nightmare may not end soon. Edoras must be readied for siege for that army shall not stop at Helm's Deep, and my preparations are nearly complete in that respect. Assuming Gríma knows not all, the word spreads even now throughout the land: come to Edoras and be ready to defend your land!_ _ Whether the arrival of Riders at Edoras would spare her brother rather depended upon whether they found her a married woman or not. For she did not doubt Théoden would conveniently die soon thereafter, and Gríma would then make himself lord of the land. __And then they would be his Riders, bound to obey him in all things, and who beyond Edoras knows enough to refuse to bow to him?_ _ If only it were Elfhelm who came first, even then, there was a chance that the Mark at least would be spared the rule of Gríma Wormtongue, for Elfhelm knew too much to lose the chance to topple the tyrant from his throne. He would not be brought to bow by the confusion sown by the honey-tongue of a usurper.

But it would still be too late for Éomer, of that she was nearly certain, even assuming all went as her rather desperate plan called for. It would need but a sign, and sentence would fall. And if things did not go as hoped for, well, she would have far longer to endure, for whatever might happen to Éomer, she doubted Gríma would give her up so easily after so long spent lusting after her. Then it would be war between them indeed, and so she prepared against both campaigns, the long one of patience as a captive queen and the short one of victorious rebel, and made herself accept that in either case, Éomer was lost.

__I am sorry, brother_ , _she thought tearfully. __Perhaps it were better I had the courage to defy Wormtongue, even though it bring your death and worse about. But I cannot. And perhaps it is best this way. I could not refuse last night, but I see clearer by day, and perhaps even weakness can be made to serve. For as long as he thinks me wholly cowed by threat to you, I have some small freedom, which I would not otherwise have had. And so your shame and mine, that I have bought you these days, may be redeemed, though neither you nor uncle shall, perhaps, live to see it.__

__

__But whatever comes about, Gríma shall not outlive you long, not even if it is to be the long campaign_ , _she vowed silently. _ _For it is as they say, that all things are in the end of our own making. Yes, my husband… come to your wife's sweet arms and learn the measure of my love! A foolish girl you may think me–a toy to amuse you in your pride. But I know of the creatures of the earth, even the lowliest. And why not? For I know what it is to look up from the ground. Know you, Gríma, of the hourglass spider? The one that devours its mate? No? Well, soon enough you shall! You play at high politics, but you know naught of the sort that go on in the bedroom, do you now?__

Thought of vengeance helped to stop her tears, for she could not afford to waste her strength on useless regrets. __It is done, after all. Let Wormtongue taste the fruits of his labor!_ _ Wiping her eyes, she stood and let herself out once more, going back through the kitchens. But as she passed a large hearth, she reached covertly into her kirtle and tossed the list into the flames ere she moved off to speak angrily with one of the cooks for leaving a fire unattended like that. And all the while, while the unwitting victim endured her tongue-lashing, wondering what had gotten into Lady Éowyn of the Mark, the list was swiftly consumed. Soon, there was nothing left, and only two knew that it had ever been… or that the last item on the list was foxglove.

***

"Eat, Gimli!" Aragorn ordered, tossing his last packet of __lembas__ to the Dwarf. Gimli fumbled to catch it and he shot the Ranger a suspicious look. They had come at last to a halt for the day, and both were weary.

"You continue to say that, but I note that nothing has passed your mouth but air and words," the Dwarf replied, which feisty response elicited a smile from his weary companion.

"The Elves would say that that is sustenance enough at need."

"And so the Dwarves are correct: Elves are daft," Gimli countered, making no move to eat anything at all. "Besides, you are no Elf, Aragorn. For which we ought both to be grateful!" he added.

"And I am not ill, either," the Ranger responded, resorting to his trump card reluctantly, for he knew that no Dwarf liked to be reminded of weakness. "Riding is exhausting work for a novice, as well, and we have still some hours to travel ere we draw nigh to Edoras."

"Alas, if you faint for hunger, I shall then be in dire straits for this horse heeds me not at all," Gimli said archly, ignoring Aragorn's reference to his own diminished capacities and casting a wary look up at Hasufel. Returning his dark gaze to the Ranger, the Dwarf continued on in as reasonable a tone as ever a Dwarf employed, "At least take half, for truly, it shall do neither us nor Legolas nor anyone good if you cannot speak for us."

Aragorn shook his head and raised his eyes heavenward a moment as if in silent appeal, but he chuckled softly, too. "Very well! Such as we have, let us share it since otherwise we shall argue the night away." Gimli snorted but obeyed, though his left hand still shook as he broke the wafer in two pieces. The Ranger reached across the space and snagged the smaller morsel, which earned him another glare, but he ignored it. Hunger he had lived with before and he had made do with less for far longer than this hunt without collapsing.

__There is, of course, a first time for everything__ , Aragorn admitted as he ate, __and the Darkness saps my strength even as it wears away at an Elf's resistance and delays a Dwarf's recovery. May Frodo and Sam at least endure it with equanimity!__ In the mean time, they would soon be reunited with Legolas, and the Ranger hoped that they would find him much improved. _ _If he is to endure our news, he shall have to be better or I know not how we shall tell him.__ Truthfully, even if the Elf were fully recovered, Aragorn was not certain how to speak of Merry and Pippin to him. A part of him wished to give the task to Gimli, whose friendship with Legolas had blossomed so unexpectedly deep, but that would be cowardly. __How is this any worse than telling a family of a Ranger's death, after all?__ Alas, if it was no worse, it was also no better, and Aragorn hated that duty with an almost religious fervor, though he never forewent it.

"Tell me more of these Rohirrim, Aragorn," Gimli interrupted his thoughts just then, and the Ranger mentally shook himself. "You said you had been among them before. When was that?"

"Many years ago, admittedly," Aragorn replied. "After I had wandered for a time, learning my trade in the north, I went south to learn of Men of different sorts."

"And you admire these horse-lords?"

"I do. They are an honest people by and large, being much concerned with honor. Not unlike Dwarves are," the Ranger said pointedly, and Gimli grunted. "Less somber than the Dúnedain–whether of Arnor or Gondor–they are, and also less learned, but no less true in the end, whatever prejudice may make of such differences."

"And yet, my friend, you seem worried despite such praise." Gimli quirked a dark brow, and Aragorn grimaced slightly.

"Not all is well in this land if the king orders all strangers to come before him or be put to death. There are other things that I miss besides hospitality: we have seen no sign of horse herds nor of any sort of Men, though the custom of many folk here is to drift with the seasons, driving their herds and flocks to different pastures. And Éomer is afraid of something: I read it in his voice. Afraid, and ashamed!" He shook his dark head. "That takes some doing, Gimli, to intimidate a Marshal of the Riddermark."

"And yet you counseled me not to fear for Legolas, knowing all of this?" The edge in the other's tone was unmistakable, and Aragorn sighed softly, meeting the other's stony gaze.

"Yes, because in spite of this… this malady that plagues the land, the Rohirrim are not easily cowed. Even now, I think that one who obeys the king's edict, even be he one of the Eldar, of whom the Rohirrim are suspicious for lack of knowledge, need not fear for his safety, particularly not wounded as he is. I doubt that our friend suffers too greatly unless he has somehow managed to embroil himself in Rohan's troubles, whatever they be."

"And what are the chances that he shall do just that?"

The Ranger and the Dwarf stared at each other for long, and finally, Aragorn responded: "I should hope that he would be wise enough to leave well alone…"

"But?"

"But," the Ranger sighed, "this is Legolas that we speak of, and I ought to know better than to expect him to behave." Gimli grunted at that, and looked away, while Aragorn cursed silently for having misjudged how best to handle the Dwarf's concerns. He had been too weary and preoccupied at first to deal with Gimli's nearly frantic fears, and had sought only to calm them enough to buy both of them some peace for a time. But clearly he had erred in painting too positive a picture, and now what he had hoped would be a gentle enough wakening to the tension in Rohan seemed a reversal of his previous assurances. __And so I seem a liar. Valar help me, I ought to know better than to fall into such a simple trap of words!__

"Would they kill him?"

"I cannot tell you 'no' without a doubt, Gimli," Aragorn replied, spreading his hands slightly in a gesture of helplessness. "But in Rohan, the crimes that earn a capital sentence have to do with treason, murder, or rape. And now this law against trespassers, but Legolas has gone to present himself before the court, so he cannot be tried and sentenced to death for his obedience."

"And he is not bound to Rohan, so he could not commit treason, could he?"

"I cannot see how he might."

"And he has no reason to wish anyone in this land ill…"

"No, he does not." Neither mentioned the third possibility, for Legolas could have no interest in defiling a woman thus. __'Tis more likely he would prove a murderer!_ _ Aragorn thought, dismissing the very notion. Gimli issued another grunt and fell silent for a time, chewing thoughtfully, and the Ranger was reminded that he, too, had to eat. However much he had protested at first, he never wasted what he was given.

"Well," Gimli said at length in a gruff tone, "I suppose then that he is safe enough, in spite of troubles." Gloín's son gazed steadily at him, and Aragorn felt some of the tension in his gut unwind at the oblique forgiveness.

"I hope that he is. For I would not lose him either," Isildur's Heir replied, and Gimli offered a ghost of a smile ere he growled at Hasufel. The horse was tethered on a long enough line that he could wander a bit in search of grass or other bits of greenery, and he now nuzzled the Dwarf, apparently drawn to the scent of _lembas_. "Away with you, horse! I have naught of interest, surely!" And when Hasufel continued to nose about Gimli: "Aragorn!"

" _ _Eathe, eathe, mín freond!__ " The Ranger stood and reached down to catch Hasufel's ear, guiding the animal's head up away from Gimli. The horse whickered at him and butted him in the chest, and the Dwarf snorted.

"See? Dangerous beasts with no respect!"

"One day you must ask Legolas to teach you the way of the Elves with horses," Aragorn replied, stroking Hasufel's neck soothingly. "He but seeks a reward for his labors, as do we all in the end." The Dwarf watched skeptically as the Ranger broke off a small corner of his portion of __lembas__ and offered it to his mount. Hasufel gladly accepted and Gimli rolled his eyes.

"Has he not all the fields for his manger?"

"He has worked as hard as we," Aragorn replied.

"Hah!" But the Dwarf said no more on the subject, only finished his frugal meal ere he turned a wise eye up to his friend. "And what reward do you hope for when this war is over, Aragorn?"

"Gondor restored and a life lived in peace for the first time since I was fifteen, or a little younger," the Ranger replied simply. And sensing that Gimli stared at him still, he raised a brow and asked, "What more could I hope for?"

"I had hoped to learn that, as I know not," the Dwarf responded, cocking his head. There were times when a Dwarf's height had definite advantages, and this was one of them: when taller companions habitually looked down to hide their smiles, he saw them clear as day, even in the dim light of their fire. "All right! I saw that, and now I think I may hazard a guess, for though I be a Dwarf, I have seen that look before even on Men! Who waits for you at home, my friend?"

"No one," the Ranger replied, and Gimli frowned, for however unexpected, the answer rang true. Narrowing his eyes, the Dwarf tried a different tack:

"Legolas suspects, you know."

"Does he indeed?" Aragorn gave the horse an affectionate slap and murmured something that caused Hasufel to move a little ways away and return to grazing on the dew-damp grass. "And has he confided these suspicions?"

"You keep many secrets, Aragorn, for one so honest!" Gimli replied, unwilling to admit that Legolas had not, but knowing full well that his refusal to answer the question was its own admission.

"If I did not keep them, I would not be so called," the Dúnadan replied. "And if you do not rest now, then tomorrow you shall suffer for it. I shall take the first watch and wake you later."

With a resigned but amused shake of his head, Gimli said, "Very well then. I shall not ask further, but one day one of us shall learn the truth!"

"Then I wish you fortune in that endeavor. Good night, Gimli!"

"Good night!" The Dwarf curled up beneath his cloak and was soon asleep, for in truth he was more weary than was his wont at the end of the day. __Thrice-cursed orcs!_ _ he thought disgustedly as he drifted off to sleep.

Meanwhile, Aragorn stood watching him for a time ere he shivered and pulled his cloak close about him, going to stand near Hasufel for what warmth the horse's body could offer. _ _Good luck indeed, my friend,__ he thought. __For I would share my dream with you if I thought I had a hope of attaining it. But all I have is one night of memories and guilt the next morning that taints all my remembrance. How could I share that with any, even did it not compromise Arwen's honor?_ _

With a shake of his head, he put such remorseful thoughts aside and turned his attention to the future. __Tomorrow we reach Edoras, and then… then we shall learn the truth, whatever that may be.__

* * *

__Béma ahredde ús!_ : _Oromë save us! Tolkien writes that Oromë was called Béma by some men. I have just chosen to assume that these men are the Rohirrim or their ancestors (RotK, 393).

__Eathe, eathe, mín freond!_ : _Easily, easily, my friend!


	18. And All the King's Men

 Háma son of Héor was not a superstitious man. Or at least, no more so than was any warrior. He kept no set of blessed bones to dice with when seasonal storms threatened, nor looked to eclipses to foretell the future, and in general he heeded not the rumors that circulated among the general populace. Had he done so, he would have looked to see Éorl himself return on the back of a dragon and the resurrection of Helm Hammerhand. In his mind, such wild fantasies and practices were quite distinct from the occasional prayer to Béma or the lock of his wife's hair that he kept on him for good luck, and as a rule, he frowned upon those of the guard who watched their calendars too closely for auspicious days or ill-omened moons. That sort of blind striving to grasp what a man could not in principle understand was an unneeded distraction, a breech in a unit's discipline and a measure of the fear and anxiety that plagued men these days.

_At least I can excuse the latter, for my own heart is uneasy and I know full well the root of the malice in this land,_ he thought moodily. But he had no idea what to make of the latest word that had spread like wildfire up from the main gates, and Háma wondered whether later he ought to speak to Brand of the Gate-guard about the perils of an unguarded tongue.

Never having traveled beyond the borders of the Riddermark, Mundburg was as foreign to him as the moon itself, but the Mark had always enjoyed close ties with Gondor. Even in these dark times, when the king was fallen into decrepitude and despite the efforts of a certain Wormtongue— _Curse his name!_ —the bond was not yet severed that bound the two realms together, and many there were in the Mark who waited anxiously for a positive declaration of war against Mordor. News flowed back and forth between Minas Tirith and Edoras on a fairly regular basis, and so he knew well the rhyme that had drawn away the lord Boromir. And contradictory though it might seem, Háma was willing to accept that worthy's errand as legitimate. _For the line of the Stewards is a high one, and ever and anon there is born among them a soothsayer. I would not have taken Boromir for one, but his brother… aye, that I can believe._

But even so, there seemed to be a division in his soul as to what he believed in the abstract and philosophical sense and his expectations as to the unbroken routine of the here and now. Were it not for that split, he might have been less troubled and hesitant regarding the tale that Brand's runner had relayed two days ago when marshall and guest had safely entered the hall: that Éomer's Elf-lord played hostage for none other than Isildur's fabled Heir.

As Éomer himself had not seen fit to mention that fact— _Or rather, that unsubstantiated claim_ —before the king and court, Háma had judged it best to keep his mouth shut and do as he had always done: listen, watch and wait, and be certain that the lady Éowyn knew of the rumor that had come with Éomer. She had been very interested, that was certain, but Háma could not tell whether she believed, for she had been quite pressed for time. She had heard him out, and then nodded thoughtfully ere she had entrusted him with her instructions with a quick press of her hand and a look of silent thanks.

_Soon enough we shall see the fruits of that errand, and I only hope that we shall not end by killing ourselves!_ Háma thought, suppressing the urge to massage the muscles at the base of his neck, for he could feel a headache coming on. _I do not need this,_ he thought grumpily. _'Tis hard enough in the Mark these days simply to do the task assigned one, let alone do it well and as it ought to be done. I do not need to deal now with would-be legends!_

But as was ever the case in important matters, the choice was not his to make: fate would present him with perplexities, and he would have to decide what to do to tame them. _If they can be tamed! And can I tame them if I do not believe?_ Such questions ought not to fall within the purview of the captain of the king's household guard, but then again, the king's captain ought not to have to go behind his sovereign's back in order to secure the safety of not only the king but the realm. He ought not to have to watch as the king's sister-daughter worked herself into a most untenable position in order to protect not only her brother but the kingdom; he ought not to have to be a conspirator to be loyal.

_There are many things that ought not to be, and which are in spite of that!_ he thought with sour desperation, but men of the Riddermark did not complain of fortune. They endured, they followed it, and whithersoever it led, they met the devil with a grin. That was tradition, at least. Reality might be different, but for the sake of the Mark, Háma had already perjured himself in the eyes of the law several times, so he supposed that he might as well seek redress of evil in the two wanderers whom Brand escorted now to Meduseld. Assuming one of them was in truth Isildur's Heir, perhaps he might at least show a king's intiative and rid them of one Wormtongue. Mere wishful thinking, that, and without doubt, he would do better to observe the two that Brand even now brought before the doors of Meduseld.

They were certainly unlike any others that Háma had ever seen: though grey cloaks hung close about their shoulders, eerily seeming to shift in hue to match the sky or the stones, the rest of their gear was work of mortal hands. Even so, the Dwarf's corselet was clearly of far superior make than any that lay within Edoras's treasuries, and given the reputation of that stout and fierce race, that came as little surprise. The broad-bladed, double-headed axe that the Dwarf bore had the look of a weapon lovingly tended and kept in immaculate condition against all too frequent need. And the scowl on his face matched the one that Háma politely refrained from wearing as he turned his attention to the Man.

Héor's son did not lack for inches and he looked up to very few, but this wanderer had a hand-span on him. He was Éomer's height easily, and might just have a hair's breadth on that worthy as well, though it was hard to tell from this angle. Unlike the Dwarf, whose raiment proclaimed him a warrior well-equipped for battle, the Man wore plain clothes of the sort any common horse-herder or vagabond might wear: shades of brown and dark green, leather and rough home-spun that bore no few blood or grass stains. Naught but the sword that depended from a well-worn sword-belt would have marked him for a warrior. _Naught but that, and his bearing_ , Háma amended. Even the Elf had not made quite the same impression on the warden of Théoden's doors, though perhaps the prince could be excused on account of injury. This wanderer fairly skewered him with his eyes, and Háma had the clear impression that it would not do to cross his will without a very good reason.

"Welcome to Meduseld… sirs," Háma managed after a moment's hesitation, uncertain of how he ought to address this mismatched pair. "I am Héor's son, Háma, and Warden of the Hall."

"Is Legolas within?" the Dwarf asked gruffly, wasting no words on courtesy, and the Warden cocked his head. According to all the tales that he had ever heard, there was no love lost between the Elves and the Dwarves, and he wondered whether that was concern that spoke or less welcome emotions. _Need I watch them both, to insure that neither tries to make a dent in the other's skull?_ He hoped not, but decided to attach a minder to the Dwarf so that in the event that he came near the Elf, there would be a witness and someone close at hand to deal with the doubtless messy aftermath.

"You shall learn the answers to your questions soon enough, Master Dwarf," he replied aloud, the soul of discretion. The Dwarf's eyes narrowed slightly, but Háma continued on quickly, denying him the opportunity to argue his statement: "Who shall I say would come before the king?"

"Gimli, Glóin's son am I," the Dwarf replied, and seemed about to say something further, but Háma had turned already to gesture to the Man.

"I am called Aragorn, son of Arathorn," the other replied, and Háma grunted, cocking a skeptical brow, awaiting some further declaration. But none was forthcoming, so the Warden sighed inwardly and let his gaze drift back to the Dwarf, Gimli, again.

"Then I bid you welcome once more, and must ask that you disarm yourselves, for the law of the land permits no weapons to enter the king's presence, save by his permission." The Dwarf growled something utterly unintelligible, but Háma had been Warden for many years, and he knew a curse when he heard it, no matter what the language. Opening his mouth, he began to explain that there was absolutely no choice in this matter when Aragorn spoke again.

_"Hwanon cumath theos æ?"_

"You speak Rohirric?" Háma shot him a sharp stare, feeling his heart quicken for no discernible reason. "Or know you but a few words?"

"I speak it, and why should I not, who have lived among the Éorlingas before?"

"Have you now? And when was that, good sir?" Háma demanded, hoping that there would be no cause to inquire after a lot of horse-herders or farmers who had broken the law.

"Many years ago, so fear not for your people," Aragorn replied with a slight smile. "But unless I am wrong, it still stands as law that one who has lived here and served the king is never again accounted a stranger."

"That is so, but even high officers of the court must surrender their weapons," Háma responded. "I would advise you to make no great issue over this, for it is required of all, even of Marshalls of the Mark."

"Then I shall give you no argument, but ask a question instead," Arathorn's son replied even as he unbuckled his sword-belt and motioned for Gimli to hand over his axe. The Dwarf obeyed with grudging reluctance, but said no more. "Having spoken with Éomer, I am led to believe that much goes amiss here." Those piercing grey eyes settled once more upon the Warden, who found himself nodding almost in spite of himself. "Why, then, has not the council intervened?"

"The council?" Háma blinked. "Your visit must have been quite long ago indeed, if you know not the answer. There is no council, sir, only a councilor."

"And why has he done naught for the Riddermark's succor?"

"Why say you that he has not?"

"Gandalf Greyhame spoke with concern of the court of Edoras, and Éomer's voice and feel seem to me to justify that concern. Come, I am no spy sent by Saruman," Aragorn chided lightly, and when Háma's eyes narrowed, he added gently, "New spreads, Háma, Warden of Meduseld, and those who have eyes and ears cannot help but note the trouble of this land."

"I see," the Warden paused considerately, passing Aragorn's sword to one of the guard detail to set against the wall. "I fear I am not at liberty to speak much about such things, my lord."

"Then it seems that someone must inquire of this councilor."

"If there were any to do so, doubtless that would be the proper course," Háma admitted. And as Aragorn passed a second dagger to him, he gave the Warden a smile that inspired a swiftly suppressed shiver, for it did not quite reach his eyes. _That look I have seen before_ , the Warden thought warily. Usually it was Éomer or Théodred who sported it, and often after learning of another incursion into the Mark by orcs or another of Wormtongue's plots to be foiled. It was the look a warrior wore into a hopeless or very doubtful battle. A very Éorling expression indeed, that smile and those eyes that betrayed naught but a warning for those who would oppose them, and Aragorn replied in a reasonable tone:

"Then I shall do so. For Ælric Eardstapa left the Mark in good standing, and never lost his rank!" At which pronouncement, Háma could not help but stare, lips parted in astonishment. _Ælric Eardstapa …_ His father's tales of the court came back in an instant, and the warden shook his head as if dazed. _Impossible!_

"Ælric Eardstapa must be dead," he exclaimed, eliciting confused looks from the younger men of the guard, and hard stares from the older ones. "He would be my father's age at least!"

"Older, actually," Aragorn replied deadpanned, and Háma shook his head sharply.

"'Tis not possible. I would sooner look to see Isildur's Heir than Ælric!"

"Then look no further, Warden, for you have found them both." And with that, Aragorn beckoned Gimli to come and strode past Háma into the halls. And marvel of marvels, the guard contingent parted before them like sheep before a pair of wolves.

"Captain?" his second in command queried hesitantly, and Háma rounded on him fiercely. The other recoiled slightly, automatically stepping back out of range of the Warden's sword. "What means this?"

"I know not," Háma replied, his tone sharper than the other's question merited. Drawing a deep breath, the Warden attempted to calm his mind and quell his astonished disbelief. _But do I disbelieve him?_ All that he had ever learned made the return of Isildur's Heir, not to mention of a man long assumed dead, highly improbable. _And yet here comes one who claims to be both, and with him travel an Elf and a Dwarf and who knows what else? A pair of Halflings in a pocket, I suppose?_ Upon further consideration, it seemed self-evident that either Aragorn was quite mad… or else he was in truth Isildur's Heir. _And Ælric, long Thengel's champion!_ Whatever the case, this promised to breed more than ceaseless arguments at least, and Háma came swiftly to a decision.

"Aldor! Take command here. Cyld, Halróf, and you two!" That last summons was directed at a pair of the younger lads who had only recently joined the guard and had naught to lose. "Follow me and do nothing save by my order alone. Do you understand?" he demanded, pinning each of the four with a hard stare.

"Aye, captain!" the chorused response came back, and he nodded sharply.

"Very good. Come then, and go quiet as a cat if you value your skins!" _So there is another councilor in Edoras, is there? Another councilor to counter Wormtongue… to speak for those who need a voice. What is one more act of treachery in the name of the kingdom, after all is said and sifted? At the least, this disruption should shake the court and perhaps someone's claws will lose their hold a bit! And should it go ill—as well it might—I could be in worse company than Éomer's!_ So Háma followed his guests into the hall with a smile very like to Aragorn's on his face.

***

"What was that about back there?" Gimli demanded in a basso whisper as he and Aragorn made their way towards the throne room. "What said you to the door warden?"

"I have told you that I served once in Rohan," the Ranger replied, and the Dwarf nodded. "Under the law, which has not been changed, once a man has offered his sword in defense of the realm and had that offer accepted, he is no longer _eltheodig_ —no longer a stranger, legally. And though he may leave the realm, should he return, he retains all privileges that he enjoyed before, save only in certain cases of dishonor. As I left Rohan a captain and councilor in good standing, I remain one, though one who has been absent for long."

"Why then did you surrender your sword?"

"Because had I contested the new law, I would have risked my standing. And I shall need it to argue with Master Wormtongue, of whom Gandalf so fondly spoke at the council of Elrond," Aragorn replied grimly.

"But how shall that help you? Surely you would waste your time arguing with him?"

"Agreed. I should perhaps have said that I would argue with Théoden, for all councilors are co-equal in rank and as Ælric, I need not Gríma's permission to address my king."

"Diplomacy!" Gimli sighed softly, shaking his head.

"Politics, which is not always the same thing. Bide a time in silence, Gimli, and follow my lead where appropriate!"

"That is easy enough to say," Gimli muttered. He supposed that Aragorn's plan was a good one, but truthfully, he knew too little of law and custom in Rohan to make a sound judgment. At the moment, Rohirric politics interested him only insofar as they concerned the fate of a certain Elf of Mirkwood, and Gimli chafed at the bit to know what had become of him. Háma's smooth deferral of the question had not eased his mind, and he chewed on his mustaches pensively as he trotted along at Aragorn's side, wishing that the Dúnadan would remember his shorter stride.

_And that he would speak Westron! Mahal curse it all, why can they not speak a tongue that all understand?_ Dwarvish mores aside, it was only courtesy to speak the language of a guest. Or, if that were not possible, to at least speak a common tongue, commonly agreed upon. _I suppose, though, that that fellow at the main gate was warning enough!_ For the hail had come in Rohirric, and although Aragorn had answered all in Westron, the other had been quite content to carry on his half of the conversation in his native (and to Gimli's ears, unintelligible) language. Apparently, though, Rohirric, like disease, was catching, and Gimli had waited with what he considered magnanimous patience while his companion had haggled with Háma.

"Calmly, my friend, and never fear, you shall learn the answers to your questions in good time. If I fail in this gambit, after all, we shall have many a long hour in the dungeon to fill," Aragorn replied with a soft chuckle, leaving Gimli to wonder at the other's sense of humor.

They came now to a heavy set of ornate doors, and the guards there hesitated not an instant to open them and wave them within. A Dwarf's eyes, accustomed to subterranean dwellings, naturally adjusted well to gloom, and in truth, the darkness of the hall had troubled him little. But as they entered the throne room, the Dwarf frowned. Light streamed through a single, unshuttered window set high in the wall, and the contrast between the patch of illuminated floor and the rest of the room was stark. But beyond that, Gimli was aware of a sense of malice, of illness, almost, that clung to the hall, and he wrinkled his nose slightly. _'Tis not a smell… what is it?_ he wondered as he peered through the gloom, squinting as his eyes readjusted.

Upon the throne sat a stooped and wizened figure, and the Dwarf felt his stomach drop out through the earth as he realized that indeed, this was Rohan's king. Frail as a reed he seemed, with his snowy locks and Dwarf-long beard. _Mahal have mercy,_ this _is power that rules the land?!_ He shot Aragorn a quick glance, but Isildur's Heir betrayed nothing in his expression and strode forward to stand before the lowest step. " _Westhu hal, cyning mín_ ," he greeted Théoden, and the king stirred slightly. " _Gehyrst thu mé?_ "

" _Sé cyning ne gehierth elthéodas,_ " came a soft voice from the steps, and Gimli jerked his gaze from the king to the figure seated there before the throne. He had not even noticed the Man, which was telling. It was as if the other's voice had made him visible, crafting him a body to contain itself. _And I think me that I like not the language he speaks_ , Gimli decided. _And I do not mean Rohirric!_ Something in that voice grated on the Dwarf's ears, like boulders grinding, or the trembling of the earth, and he liked it not at all. Beside him, Aragorn cocked his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he stared at the man whose nervous blinking began to irritate Gimli further.

" _Ne eltheodig eom ic, runwita,_ " the Ranger replied firmly.

" _Ah? Hwa cann thæt ús iewan? Nænig!_ " Even Gimli recognized the sneering contempt in that question, and the Dwarf found his fists balling at his side as anger coursed through him on his friend's behalf. _Be politic_ , he reminded himself, and made certain to clasp his hands behind his back in an effort to obey Aragorn's earlier injunction.

" _Nænig, secgeth Gríma Gálmódes bearn, mmm? Resteth ne æan ne arweorth her, Théoden-cyning?_ " Was it Gimli's imagination, or did a round of hisses go through the hall at that, as if every guard in the room had drawn a sharp breath at once? But whatever the guards might think, the apparently pointed question drew an inquiry from the king, which the Dwarf hoped was a good sign as Théoden had not yet spoken a word.

" _Hwa eart thu?_ " the old man's voice came out as a hoarse whisper, and the wrinkled, thin hands that clutched the arms of the throne trembled as Théoden leaned forward slightly to stare at Aragorn.

" _Hé is nænig, cyning mín!_ " the councilor replied quickly, adopting an oily tone that set Gimli's nerves on edge. " _An hefigtyme scrithaner is hé! Sceawiath hine, hlaford!_ "

" _Cum her!_ " Théoden replied, seeming not to notice his councilor, and Aragorn went. Up to the steps, and, at the king's shaky gesture, he ascended 'til he stood directly before the old man, there to kneel in polite obeisance. " _Sceawe mé!_ " The Ranger raised his eyes to Théoden's, and the two men stared at each other in silence. Seconds trickled by, becoming minutes, and Gimli fancied that Erebor began to change its shape as time wore away at it, so long did that silence endure. Even the councilor said naught, though his breath rasped loudly and he seemed to have grown even paler, if that were possible. _What passes here in this hall?_ the Dwarf wondered, frustrated by his inability to understand what was said around him. Guardsmen were watching, unabashedly staring in fascination at the still scene before them: Aragorn on his knees, seeming before the aged, white-haired king rather more young than Gimli had ever thought him to be ere that very moment.

At long last, Théoden raised a trembling hand and laid it upon Aragorn's face, and it seemed to the dwarf that the old man's eyes grew suspiciously bright and glassy. " _Ne… ne, thæs cann nic wesan!_ "

" _Oncnawest thu mé, Théoden-cyning?_ "

" _Ic sceawie an mann, hwæt ic in gemynd mín sceawie… an Ælric Eardstapa._ " _Speak Westron!_ Gimli felt like suggesting, but upon due consideration, he decided that it might be best not to break the mood with any such request. Whatever happened between Aragorn and Théoden, it seemed more wholesome than what churned within the soul of the odious little councilor. Gimli, gazing at the man, felt a shiver pass through him, and the hair on the nape of his neck stood up in response to the other's nearly white-eyed stare.

" _Giese, hlaford mín. And mid thín lætanung, thín runwitena sculath thá Riddermearce sprecan!_ "

At that precise moment, footsteps sounded, and a familiar voice cried out: "Gimli!"

"Legolas!" The Dwarf turned in astonishment to see Háma of the guard escorting a rather startled Elf into the hall. And behind him…

"Éomer!" Théoden murmured as the Third Marshal, hands bound behind his back, dropped instantly to his knees. To the Dwarf's eyes, the man seemed haggard, exhausted, and there was in his face something that bespoke an inner torment that was grievous to behold. But his eyes blazed with some unidentifiable emotion that seemed to give him strength enough to speak the traditional greeting in a voice nearly his own.

Tûrg Mahalu, _what is wrong with him?_ The Dwarf hurriedly looked to Legolas, eyes flicking over his friend in a hasty evaluation. Mirkwood's prince seemed to be in better spirits than the Marshal at least. Indeed, Legolas seemed quite alert, and if there were still a shadow in his eyes, he did not droop or withdraw, but fixed his bright stare upon the king. Gríma, on the other hand, looked about to suffer an apoplectic fit, but that that would rid the court of him too easily.

"Háma!" the councilor snapped, and before the hatred in that voice the captain of the guard drew himself up (and drew a deep breath, Gimli noted), seeming as one who girds himself against a storm he cannot escape.

" _Théoden-cyning_ ," the Warden began at almost the same moment, as if he would plead his case quickly, ere the councilor could speak much of him.

" _Hlaford mín_ ," Éomer interjected as well, and Gimli shook his head sharply, unable to follow the rapid shifts as the babble of voices reached a crescendo, each man trying to speak at once in a torrent of impassioned Rohirric. Aragorn's silver gaze went swiftly from Marshal to Warden to councilor, and thence to Legolas. Throughout it all, other than to hail Gimli, the Elf had not spoken, nor had he taken his eyes from the king, and the Ranger's eyes narrowed in turn as he glanced back at Théoden.

_And what did that look mean? What else did I just miss?_ the Dwarf grumbled to himself, folding his arms across his chest. The king sat with head bowed, as if unable to withstand the onslaught of voices and pleas. Indeed, Gimli found himself in sympathetic accord with the old man, for the sense of helpless fury and desperation that pervaded the court was nearly intolerable. _No small wonder that Aragorn sensed something amiss! Such an atmosphere is well nigh stifling, and it shows. Mahal but it shows! Did Boromir face this, I wonder? Did he know how fragile was the ice upon which Rohan stood—and continues to stand—when he passed through here on his way north?_

Such was but idle speculation, though, and there was naught a Dwarf could do but wait out the speeches and hope that something came of this seemingly fruitless exchange. To his left, Legolas appeared to have come to the same conclusion, for he closed his eyes and began to whistle softly to himself, ignoring the bonds and the guards and all the racket with peculiarly elvish aplomb.

Oddly, though, the Elf's tune seemed to have a soothing effect, for one by one, the men fell silent; even Gríma ceased his tirade. But whereas Éomer and Háma looked to Legolas with a slightly puzzled fascination, and Aragorn watched the king with hawk eyes, the councilor's face darkened. His lips peeled back from his teeth, and a hiss escaped him, which seemed to the Dwarf a rather excessive response to bit of music. _Even if it is haunting…_ Gimli thought, frowning thoughtfully.

" _Ætstand hine!_ "

"Why do you fear a mere song, councilor?" Aragorn shot back in the Common Speech, startling Gimli with his sudden switch.

"A mere song? This Elf tried to put a spell on the king before, and this treacherous fool allows him a second chance!" Gríma replied, rounding on Háma with a malicious gleam in his eyes. "Long have I suspected this one of double-dealing…."

Éomer made a strangled noise, and it needed a moment for Gimli to realize that the man laughed. The Third Marshal climbed to his feet, shaking his head.

"I kneel for my king, but for thee, I stand, Wormtongue! Craven and traitor I call thee, and thou canst but kill me for the naming. Which thou wouldst anyways," Éomer spat bitterly. "But I am told that the council convenes, and though I be but Éomer Éomund's son 'til my king judges me, I may still plead my case before the court. That is, if any man here has the heart as well as the authority to hear me." Éomer turned now to Aragorn, and desperate blue eyes fastened on the other. "Speak for me, I beg, if you be also Ælric whom my father loved well!"

"That has not been proven—" Gríma interjected hotly.

"Then let us put my claim to the test," Aragorn replied. "There is but one man in this hall who knew Ælric, and he is before us. Let the king name me formally, if he will."

As the men gazed expectantly at Théoden, Gimli drifted unobtrusively nearer Legolas and Éomer, for now that they had come to the breaking point, should Théoden's memory fail him, he would not see his friend dragged back below to the dungeon. _Aragorn I can count upon to take care of himself, after all, but an Elf?_ Glóin's son smiled thinly. Théoden sat with his head bowed still, and made no move. _Has he expired?_ the Dwarf wondered fearfully. A glance up at Legolas seemed to tell against that fear, for the Elf's eyes remained closed and he seemed calm enough. Whether in truth he wrought a spell, as Gríma charged, or whether he simply waited after his own fashion, Gimli could not say, but he thought that the Elf seemed… hopeful.

At long last, the king stirred, and a tremor seemed to run through him. He lifted his eyes to stare once more at Aragorn, who remained kneeling before him. Blue eyes touched then upon Gimli himself, and thence the king's gaze roved to find Gríma, Háma, and Éomer. Finally, those eyes settled upon Legolas, who opened his own at just that moment to meet them. Green and blue, field and sky, and for an instant, Gimli had the impression that somehow, the two belonged together, as if a cord more subtle than spun mithril bound them to each other. And then Legolas did something, and the cord seemed to fall, dissolving, and the Dwarf wondered whether it was simply a trick of his eyes, brought on by the contrast of sun and shade.

"I know you," Théoden murmured, never ceasing to gaze at the Elf. "You were with me that night…."

"I was, your majesty," Legolas replied, bowing low.

"He tried to attack you, my king!" Gríma hissed.

"Attack… how odd, for I remember a light in my dreams…" Théoden shook his head sharply, seeming to try to clear his mind as he shifted his attention back to Aragorn. "And you! How is it possible that you are here? You were my father's captain…"

"The line of Isildur is long-lived, my king," Aragorn replied. "And though I have been absent, I have kept my honor and would serve once more… if you will name me."

"Name you…"

"Théoden King, do not let these sorcerers confound you!" Gríma entreated, clutching at the king's arm. This time, though, Théoden jerked, as if stung and the councilor recoiled slightly before the sharp-eyed glare turned upon him.

"Do not you question me in that tone, councilor. And do not touch me!" Gríma hastily withdrew his hand, and Théoden ignored him once more as he turned back to the Ranger. "I will name you: you are Ælric Eardstapa, captain and councilor, champion of my father in the days of my youth. Other names you have, it seems, but those you shall have to declare for yourself, for I know them not. But yours is not a face one forgets, not though many years pass." And with that, the king stood, and the clatter of his staff upon the floor was loud in the silence. "As for you, Éomer, you would speak, and so I give you leave. You need not seek a councilor's support."

"Béma be praised," the younger man muttered prayerfully under his breath. "My king, I seek redress for wrongs done me and my family! I stand before you with the charge of traitor over my head, and though I do not deny that I rode against our enemies without permission and allowed strangers to wander free within our bounds, surely there can be no such fault laid at the feet of my sister, Éowyn!"

"Éowyn? Where is she?" Théoden demanded, seemingly reminded of her absence.

"Ask Gríma Gálmód's son! Ask him who bought her honor with threats to my life!"

"What is this?" Théoden asked, turning ice-cold eyes upon the shrinking councilor.

"He lies, my king! Éowyn agreed to my suit!"

"Before or after you threatened Éomer's death?"

"I promised him a trial, as is his right. I did not threaten to kill him," Gríma replied.

"You or your minions, 'tis but a small difference! Ask Éowyn! Surely we may hear her voice, for is she not a shieldmaiden?" Éomer replied forcefully.

"No longer," Gríma replied, and smiled before Éomer's white-faced fury.

"A woman wronged has still redress through her brothers or father assuming they live," Aragorn replied mildly. "Perhaps it would be best to judge Éomer first, my king."

"You hold yourself guilty of breaking the law, Éomer?"

"I do, my king, but such laws as were crafted by Worm—by Gríma son of Gálmód I hold suspect!"

"As do I!" Háma interjected suddenly, coming to Éomer's aid. "My king, if you would hear those who would serve you truly, you will learn that there is not an honest man in this court! We are all of us traitors if Éomer is, for we have all sought the preservation of the realm and maintenance of the court against the bans of Gríma. Slay us all, or pardon us!"

There was a long pause as Théoden considered this plea, and Gimli rocked up onto his toes, scarce able to stand the anticipation. _Surely he sees the truth now! Come, old man, speak!_ At length, the king turned to Wormtongue, and the councilor's pale eyes widened. "My king…" he murmured.

"Háma, take this below and see to it that the cell is secure."

"Gladly, your majesty!" The Warden signaled two of his men forward, and they were joined by a pair of men stationed in the hall itself. Gríma recoiled before them an instant, but then cursed loudly as Halróf none too gently laid hands on him and began herding him out of the hall. As the five of them passed before Éomer and Legolas, Gríma gave a serpentine hiss and spat at the Marshal, who flinched back, a look of disgust on his face. Disgust quickly gave way to anger, and he turned sharply to gaze after the councilor.

"Éomer," Aragorn's voice stilled whatever threat the younger man might have made, and the Marshal drew a deep breath. "Let him go, my friend. He has been dealt with."

"Loose them," Théoden commanded, sinking back down upon the throne. Weary he seemed now, but to Gimli, it was a less pervasive fatigue, and one more natural than that which had afflicted him before.

"Gimli!" The Dwarf turned and cocked a severe brow at the Elf, who stood rubbing his wrists to restore circulation.

"Master Elf, if you think ever to land yourself in a dungeon again, I shall send for my axe and spare both you and I much misery!"

"I shall say one thing for the cells of Edoras: the company is better there," the Prince of Mirkwood retorted, eliciting a strangled sound from his companion, and some chuckles from the men surrounding the unlikely pair.

"Then perhaps we should return you to one, so that you and Master Gríma may converse."

"I—"

" _Cyning_!" Another of Háma's men appeared just then, bursting through the great doors with a look of cautious hope upon his face. " _Hlafordas mín!_ "

"What news, _ceorl_?" Théoden asked with a slight frown.

" _Cyning mín_ ," and Gimli sighed softly as the man launched into a swift explanation… in Rohirric, of course. Legolas, on the other hand, listened intently, and the Dwarf's brow knit as he murmured:

"Do not tell me that you understand that!"

"Nay, not truly. But I begin to, I think. Éomer has taught me somewhat."

"Oh? Do tell!"

"I fear some of it I ought not to repeat in the company of the young and naïve." The Elf flashed a quick smile at his companion, who rolled his eyes.

Whatever news the man had brought, it caused a sensation as exclamations and murmurs flitted about the hall. Even Aragorn seemed surprised, but a look of grim composure quickly settled on his lean face. And then everyone was moving, the king and the Ranger among them, much to Gimli's consternation. "What now?"

"Éomer?" Legolas demanded, glancing at his cellmate of the past few days.

"It seems that the muster of Rohan has arrived," the Marshal replied with a taut smile. "Someone sent a summons. Would you care to guess whose work this might be?"

"Éowyn!" Legolas breathed.

"My sister never lacked for audacity. But I think me that she may have cut this quite fine indeed, for Balcor reports also that a second messenger returned with his message undelivered."

"Why?"

"He found Saruman's army between himself and Elfhelm," Éomer replied grimly as he and the others reached the doors and passed from the hall to the open air. News had spread swiftly, it seemed, for hails drifted up from the outer keep as people greeted the newcomers. The Marshal paused on the steps and scanned the towers along the ramparts. After a moment, he caught his breath and pointed towards one that had raised a red banner. "There! See?"

"What means that?" Gimli demanded.

"War comes to Edoras," Éomer said softly, and turned his eyes northwest, staring as if he would pierce the layers of stone and see straight through to the host that approached. "It has been a long time brewing, but they are coming." With a shake of his fair head, the Marshal offered a hard-eyed smile as he accepted a sword lobbed him by one of the guardsmen. "Take heart, Master Dwarf and you as well Legolas, for the wait is well nigh over. No man shall sleep tonight unless in death!"

* * *

A/N: This soul (tm) now owned in three equal parts by Karaquazian, Alawa, and HF, who answered my pleas and enabled me to further tweak my OE… hopefully I didn't mess it up even more! ;-) Aragorn's Rohirric name changed at the suggestion of Alawa, so instead of being "Ælric Homeless" he is now "Ælric Wanderer" which permits of something much closer to a nice alliteration (another OE trait. Thank you again Alawa).

I hope that you didn't go quite as crazy as Gimli during this chapter, but I wanted Rohan to feel foreign after spending so much time in it with Éomer, Éowyn, Legolas, and finally Háma. If you did, however, get frustrated, fear not, the translation (such as it is) follows. If it really bugged you, let me know and I'll (try to) restrain my impulses in the future.

Hwanon cumath theos æ?—Whence comes this law?

Westhu hal, cyning mín… Gehyrst thu mé?—Be you hail, my king… Would you hear me?

Sé cyning ne gehierth elthéodas.—The king does not hear foreignors.

Ne eltheodig eom ic, runwita.—I am no stranger, councilor.

Ah? Hwa cann thæt ús iewan? Nænig!—Oh? Who can prove that [lit. who can show us that?]? No one!

Næanig, secgeth Gríma Gálmódes bearn, mmm?Resteth ne æan ne arweorth her, Théoden-cyning?— No one, says Gríma Gálmód's son, mmm? Is there neither law nor honor here any longer, Théoden king?

Hwa eart thu?—Who are you? [Who art thou?]

Hé is nænig, cyning mín!…An hefigtymer scrianther is hé! Sceawiath hine, hlaford!—He is no one, my king! A troublesome wander is he! Look at him, lord!

Cum her!… Sceawe mé!… Ne… ne, thæs cann nic wesan!— Come here!… Look at me!… No, no, this cannot be!

Oncnawest thu mé, Théoden-cyning?‡ Do you recognize me, Théoden King?

Ic sceawie an mann, hwæt ic in gemynd mín sceawie… an Ælric Eardstapa.—I believe I see a man, whom I see in my memory… one Ælric Wanderer.

Giese, hlaford mín. And mid thín lætanung, thín runwitena sculath thá Riddermearce sprecan!—Yes, my lord. And with your permission, your councilors must speak of the kingdom.

Ætstand hine!—Stop him!


	19. Cast the Net Round

 Three thousand men. Three thousand men and such equipage as they had with them--so Háma numbered Edoras's defenders, and the ice of his eyes had not melted as he had smiled grimly. Aragorn and Éomer had absorbed the bad news in silence, and Théoden had nodded thoughtfully. The best count that any could manage on their enemies was an even ten thousand, and neither words nor cries would better the situation. "Some stragglers may arrive ere sunset and so come in the nick of time before our enemies arrive," Háma had added, but no one looked to that possibility with hope. Even a few hundred stragglers would make little difference when the numbers were so unequal.

_For Edoras, though it lies atop a steep way, is not the place I would have chosen to make a stand,_ Éomer thought as he made his way down towards the outer ramparts. Quite apart from the bad odds, the sprawling nature of the Rohirrim settlements in this area, all of which were counted as a part of Edoras steading, meant that the sheer numbers of displaced civilians would make quarters and rations tight indeed. _At least,_ Éomer mused as he passed by a cluster of farmers bearing quivers and bows, _we may rely upon the fyrd men, so we shall worry less about some of the refugees_. That would give Edoras's beleaguered forces a boost in archers and pike men, but most such citizen soldiers would be held back as a last defense before the gates of Meduseld, freeing horsemen and guardsmen to hold the forward lines as long as possible. Háma was busily organizing the _fyrd_ ranks at the moment, while Théoden had disposed of his men according to the needs of Aragorn and Éomer, who had spent the past few hours making of Edoras a labyrinth of choke-points and dead-ends for the enemy to discover.

But none of that would matter, and in the end, Edoras was a bad place for a siege not because of its architecture, but because whether its people remained beyond the walls or clustered fearfully in the court of Meduseld, they would die nonetheless. Short of rescue at the hands of Minas Tirith's army entire, Edoras was doomed, and so were her defenders, innocent and otherwise. Éomer could taste the collective despair on his tongue like bitter dregs, and he supposed that that was precisely what it was: the dregs, the last draw on a day so filled with reversals he could scarcely comprehend what vast, cosmic conspiracy would put them all together in a few short hours of daylight. When he had awakened that morning in his cell, cursing his continued existence, he had looked for nothing beyond Éowyn's next visit, however painful. Háma's unexpected arrival and terse, excited message had roused astonishment and a desperate hope that had seemed to be borne out beyond all expectation with Wormtongue's incarceration and Théoden's cure.

But it had not lasted, and with the messenger's words, he had felt his elation plunge once more, only to strike bottom and rebound to a sort of mad delight with the world's perversity. _No wonder Legolas stared at me when I grinned at him earlier!_ the Third Marshal thought grimly, lips twitching nonetheless. There were those who held that his father had had a bit of the berserker in him, but most fighting men in the Mark could claim the same. It was tradition, fostered and bred into a boy early on, and Éomer tended to dismiss such tendencies in himself. After all, he had never been one to laugh while he slew; he had never lost control, nor gone into battle so hot-tempered that he failed in his duty as a captain—to protect his people and not to waste them in a futile and unnecessary engagement.

Now, though, he wondered: perhaps rumor had been correct, perhaps he had inherited a bit more of that ancient, fey humor than he had believed previously. At least his emotions had settled to a less fevered pitch, and the responsibilities of a Third Marshal had helped in that respect. As Háma had said earlier, when Éomer had paused to talk with him on his way into Meduseld, certain death focused the mind wonderfully. It made a man aware of what was important, and taught him to appreciate what he could in the time left him.

He could appreciate, therefore, that Edoras's straits, bad as they were, could easily have been worse. _Éowyn's stealthy preparations may make the difference: we may at least give a good account of ourselves and hold out for a day or two, perhaps. That must count for something, surely!_ But at the same time, such thoughts only reminded him that he still felt nauseated on her behalf, and a part of him felt certain that even were he to live to see a thousand years, that nausea would never leave him. Wormtongue's poison had infected him, and the cure was beyond him for nothing could undo the past. _Nothing could have saved me from myself. Legolas was right to fear for me!_

And if even the last few hours were beyond reclaim, the last fifteen minutes were equally lost to him: they were all plunging forward towards the abyss. With a toss of his head, Éomer made himself put such grim reflections aside and continue on his way towards the high outer walls. _This is not the time for distraction, and I have done what I could for her, after all. Little though it is, and despite the cost._ As he reached the base of the stairs, he paused to let pass a small contingent of cross-bow archers who would act as snipers for those hidden behind the barricades and in empty storehouses and shops. As the group's commander hurried by, though, Éomer reached out and caught his arm.

"My lord?" the man asked, recognizing Éomer.

"Is the lord Aragorn above?"

"Ara… ah, yes. Lord Ælric stands just there, to the left of the gates. He waits for you, I think, for ere he sent us off, he asked about you, my lord marshal."

"Good man," Éomer replied, clapping the other on the shoulder by way of dismissal as he turned his eyes to the heights. In the fast-waning light, it was impossible to distinguish anyone by face, even without a helmet. But there was Éomer's standard, surmounted by the royal crest of Edoras, and that meant that the tall silhouette standing by it was most likely Aragorn. Tucking his helm under one arm, the Third Marshal took the steps two at a time to reach the ramparts, and then turned to his left. Down the line of waiting men he strode, noting the stillness in their faces, and he gritted his teeth against the collective agony as men watched that dark army come onward.

From this angle and range, it was easy enough to spot Aragorn: Isildur's Heir stood taller than any save himself, and even had he not, his dark hair set him apart amid the profusion of gold braids and silvered armor. And from the contemplative look on his face, one might not have realized that they stood now on the edge of disaster. _This is_ , Éomer realized with a sudden cold shock, _the end of the Mark as we know it. Whatever comes next—final defeat or a new day for those left behind—nothing will ever be the same again. Since Helm's day, no enemy has dared to attack Edoras, and even then, no one who had not Eorl's blood in him ever sat upon the throne. Curse Saruman!_ No such glum thoughts showed in his face, however, for though young, Éomer knew well that men must not see a captain's weakness.

Aragorn glanced sideways, hearing his approach, and gave Éomer a nod. "Is all well at the inner keep?" Grey eyes fixed on his own, and the Third Marshal let out a slow breath. Clearly, someone—probably the archer captain—had told him of Éomer's likely whereabouts, and Éomer sensed the concern that weighted that silver gaze.

"As well as can be. Háma has the _fyrd_ men and the Meduseld guard firmly in hand, and the King's personal guard will see that Théoden is well-protected when we reach his position."

"I see." And the way that the other said it told Éomer that Aragorn had not missed the omission in his report. But Isildur's Heir knew the meaning of discretion and politely did not inquire after Éowyn. And as Éomer had rather counted on that courtesy, he let out an unobtrusive sigh of relief, for he had no desire to speak of any matter that might bring them round to mention of Gríma Wormtongue and questions that he did not want to answer. "The last archers are in place, and we wait now for naught but targets to use them against," Aragorn continued by way of moving past that awkward pause.

"We shall not lack for those, at least," Éomer replied, and smiled somewhat as he added, "I met a few of the archers coming up. They told me that 'Lord Ælric' was above."

At that, the Ranger gave a soft bark of laughter and shook his dark head, running a hand through his hair. "Ælric indeed! I had not thought I would be remembered so well that more men would know me as Ælric than Aragorn. I wonder whether my birth name even survived the journey from Meduseld to the outer keep!"

"It may have, but the king did name you Ælric, after all," Éomer reminded him with a soft chuckle. "In any case, you have enough names to bewilder the loremasters of Minas Tirith. Four I count, and how many more, I wonder?" He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the waiting, motionless men. A warrior learned habitually to gauge the subtle differences in mood that washed over an army as it waited for the clash. The veteran of many a campaign, it occurred to Éomer that there was something… off. _Something puzzling… wrong… yes, there is something wrong with this forlorn brooding_. Quizzically, he glanced over at Aragorn, who stood leaning on his hands against a convenient merlon, watching the movement along the front lines of that dark host, intent upon his enemies. If there were aught amiss, either the Ranger was not aware of it or else he had already come to terms with it. Éomer knew not which it was, only that never had the air seemed so still to him. It was as if every man stood stiff and poised, held suspended by some common injunction to silence. "Béma but it is quiet," he murmured uneasily.

Aragorn stirred at that, turning a considering eye upon the younger man. "Aye, it is," said he softly.

"Know you wherefore?" Éomer asked, drawing nearer to keep their words between themselves.

"I have my suspicions," the Ranger answered after a minute pause, but then fell silent. Clearly, he had no desire to discuss that matter any further, and tempted though he was, something in the other's manner decided Éomer against pressing him to elaborate. After a few moments, Isildur's Heir gave a soft sigh and glanced up once at the unfeeling expanse of darkening sky. Something flickered in those sea-grey eyes ere dark lashes veiled them, and then Aragorn pushed away from the merlon, giving the Third Marshal a measuring look in response to the younger man's staring.

Éomer felt an odd chill sweep through him as the pressure of those eyes weighed heavy upon him. Aragorn seemed to seek something in him, his gaze probing deeply as if to ask: _And are you ready? Are you truly ready?_ Blinking to break that eerie contact, Éomer cast a quick glance up at the fading blue of the sky, wondering if there were somewhat there to prompt that look. _Am I ready? Ready for what? Death?_ He had been ready for that since he was sixteen, and although he had never before faced a battle knowing with certainty that he would not survive it, the inevitability did not trouble him overmuch. _Not that I do not fear, but I have lived with this fear for too long to fall prey to it in the end._ And if he had, then Aragorn ought to be more or less immune to the protests of corporeal sensibilities, which was why he dared his companion's eyes once more in the hope of discerning an explanation there in spite of the Ranger's silence.

For his part, Aragorn read the other's confused questioning, yet he said naught, for he knew well the traditions of Rohan, and recognized whence Éomer's present composure stemmed. _From a close familiarity with waiting on an honorable death, for the familiar can be a comfort, even when it is grim._ Which was not to say that Éomer was alone in that dreadful alliance with death: Aragorn felt it, too—how could he not? Nevertheless, there was a fundamental difference between them that held the Ranger's tongue against revelation. _Éomer wants to die, though he does not know it, perhaps. I feel it in him, though, as I have felt it in others. Poor lad! He is likely worn out from the day's events—from the years that led to that cage and his sister's dishonor, though one must look carefully indeed to see his exhaustion._

And so he would not add to that weariness by telling of the Fellowship's quest, nor by touching on the import of that silence that Éomer had remarked. _Why trouble him at this late date, when composure comes at so high a cost? And Éomer is a warrior, besides: his is not to ask, only to do as asked… even as I do._ Beyond that, Éomer was young, aching still from that confinement, eager for what revenge he might take even if it would not last nor save either himself or Éowyn. _Young enough to be content to die and expurgate his sense of outrage with a last gasp,_ he thought and hid a sad smile. _One could do worse than die attempting to defend one's home and lord; one could die knowing that the Ring remains still, as Boromir did. As I shall, and as Gimli and Legolas shall._

Thought of those two, waiting with the guard of the inner keep, brought some comfort to a lonely soul, but even that bond was incomplete. For of the three of them, only Aragorn bore Gandalf's burden, or so he hoped. Only he knew that not only was the Ring unmade, but that whatever passed after this battle, their quest was already in vain—that it had been since that long ago conversation in Rivendell, and that it remained only for the players to exit the stage.

_And I cannot say what lies beyond the curtain that separates the stage from the real. If Boromir's death taught me aught, it is to look no further than what friendship lies before me. It would be cruel to tell them, to tell any of them now. Let them fight this last battle and die still hopeful! At the least, I can spare Legolas and Gimli 'til the battle reaches Théoden,_ he resolved grimly as he strained his eyes to find once more Saruman's men in the falling darkness. The sun hung still in the sky, but in the next quarter hour it would set, and though a prayer or plea hovered on the edge of conscious thought, he stilled it ere ever it burst through to trouble his conscience. _If we must find our own grace, then let me not ask it of those who cannot—or will not—give it._ Lowering his eyes once more, he laid a hand on Andúril's pommel and let the chill of steel and gold work its way through him even as his thoughts turned westward. _Arwen…_

"There he is!" That deep rumble of a voice broke through the silence with shattering intensity, and men stirred at the sound, shaking off their immobility with looks of confusion. Éomer cast a glance back over his shoulder, curious but no more. Aragorn, though, turned quickly and his eyes narrowed as he saw the two figures that worked their way along the catwalk ledge. Gimli was instantly recognizable, but Legolas wore a metal-studded leather jazerant—lighter and more flexible than chain mail—and the vambrances that covered the motif on the shooting brace had Rohirric designs. But for his bright eyes and elvish fairness, one might have mistaken him for a younger son of Rohan. And neither of them were supposed to be anywhere near the outer ramparts.

"I thought you were to remain with the guard before Meduseld," the Ranger said rather sharply, arching a brow at the Elf and Dwarf who came to stand before him. Gimli grunted at that and raised dark eyes to his companion, who met his stare and gave a one-shouldered shrug as he calmly unslung his bow.

"Were we? Gimli, I fear I may be more ill than I thought, for I remember no such order," Legolas frowned.

"I find it difficult to pick out one voice in amid all this Rohirric babble," Gimli snorted with exasperation. "You are the one who has been trying to learn this infernal language, not I! You were to listen for orders!" Elf and Dwarf regarded each other with mutual sympathy, and Aragorn saw more than one man turn away or raise a hand to cover his mouth and thereby hide a smile. Beside him, Éomer clearly fought a grin.

"Then let me reiterate: your posts are on the ramparts of the inner keep," the Ranger replied, pinning first one and then the other with a hard stare. Unfortunately, neither Legolas nor Gimli appeared the least intimidated. The old Sindarin expression, that companionship and contempt are but the north to the south side of the same tree, rose irresistibly to mind as his friends gazed back without the slightest apology.

"Was that an order? It seemed a suggestion to me," Gimli asked after a moment, and glanced up at the Elf for confirmation.

"It could only be a suggestion, for we are not bound to obey Lord Ælric who commands in Edoras," Legolas replied simply and smiled slightly when Aragorn said something uncomplimentary in Sindarin. "I have had my fill of the inner keep, and Gimli has had enough of Rohirric. Whither I go, he goes, so as not to be rendered mute and deaf. And I go whither I please, until the king should come again to Minas Tirith. And it pleases me to come here." The staccato clack of wood against stone as Legolas firmly planted the bow of Lórien before him like a staff punctuated that resolve. The prince of Mirkwood stared at the Ranger with all the quiet dignity of his years clouding his face. There could be nothing further from a plea than the emotion in those green eyes, and yet the Ranger felt called to answer, to assent, nonetheless. _Still…_

"You cannot even come to a full draw, Legolas," Aragorn replied quietly after a beat. "A battle-axe, at least, can in principle be wielded with but one hand."

"Principle is well and good, but practice is better," Gimli replied ere Legolas could respond. "Aragorn, whether or not we are at our best, we serve just as much purpose here as with these… these… what are they?"

" _Fyrd_ men," Legolas supplied, without releasing Aragorn for a moment. "Is that not the term, Éomer?"

"It is," Éomer replied, seeming a bit startled by his sudden inclusion. He flicked a glance at Aragorn, then his eyes went back to Gimli and thence to Legolas, ere he said, "If you gentlemen will excuse me a moment, I believe I am needed elsewhere for a time." With that, the Third Marshal gracefully bowed himself out of what was clearly a private conversation and retreated, beckoning two others to follow him, allowing the three companions some space. Gimli gave a soft grunt, and those who knew him well would have recognized his approval of the man. Turning back to Aragorn, though, the Dwarf continued in a low, persuasive voice:

"What harm, Aragorn, if we stand with you or behind you? You cannot shield us in the end." And much though Aragorn wished he might make some reassuring response, he could not. It was one thing to avoid speaking of the fate of Edoras's defenders in order to keep morale from crumbling; it was another entirely to lie to two friends who knew well the truth. And since he could not—would not—lie to them, he sighed softly and beckoned them to come and stand beside him at the parapet.

"Stay, then," he said and as the two came to join him, he added in a low voice, "Think not that I am not glad of your company, but I wish you would remain behind."

"We know that well," Gimli replied. "And we know also that against this threat, two more pairs of hands are as nothing. Still, they may yet do some good."

"And if you would not put us at undue risk even now, then do not ask us to let you go easily to your own end, where we cannot see it," Legolas added in Sindarin, for the sake of any who might still overhear their quiet conversation. From the Ranger's left, Gimli nodded in stalwart support, which only lent credence to Aragorn's suspicion that this particular ambush had been plotted with exquisite care, for the Dwarf knew very little Sindarin. _A few words only, certainly not enough to understand so complicated a sentence!_ The Ranger gave the pair a long look each, but in the end he surrendered. Some battles, after all, were not to be won by any means, and he had faced such losses before. But rarer and more dear were the battles that he had no desire to win, and he gave Legolas and Gimli a brief but unfeigned smile of gratitude--perhaps his first since he had come to Edoras--and then put all such matters aside. On the plain, the approaching host showed dark against the setting sun, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch out to touch the walls of Edoras. _Soon they shall arrive. How many can we take with us, I wonder?_

"Ten thousand," Legolas murmured softly, and Aragorn nodded slowly. The messenger who had discovered them in his path had had no time to make a head count, but an elf's long eyes saw clearly over the distance and none had doubted his tally when he had presented it earlier that day. The streets of Edoras were empty but for the soldiers who waited at strategic points. And of course, there were those who stood upon the walls who would have to fight their way back to those waiting in ambush, making themselves bait in order to give Edoras its best chance to go down with honor. _Ten thousand…_ Aragorn closed his eyes briefly, letting the leaden weight of certainty weigh upon him, feeling the glow of determined companionship to either side of him, and he heard once more in his mind Arwen's words: 'There must be moments of joy, else we do not live!' _Aye, my love, there have been moments--minutes, even, since that night, and some seconds that came as late as this afternoon. But time runs short now, and death shall find us nonetheless!_

***

Saruman's army, when it arrived during the full dark of the young night wasted no time in beginning the assault. The first volley of arrows went up from the orcs and Dunlendings of Isengard, and even the initial restraint of the Rohirrim did not confound them or stay their mad dash for the walls. Even as the defenders on the ramparts bent their bows and sent down their first flight of arrows, grappling hooks were already over the walls. Stones, oil, arrows, the occasional dagger--the enemy clustered so thick that almost every missile found a mark, and yet that seemed less a deterrent than a goad. Shrieking their rage in a cacophony of orcish and human babble, Rohan's foes scrambled up their makeshift ladders, and though the defenders of Edoras cut them down, casting many to ruin below, the battle did not slow. No sooner had they paused for breath when the hooks were cast up once more. Arrows filled the darkness, hissing through the air and disappearing against the darkened sky, only to declare themselves again as iron heads clinked against stone, or slammed wetly into living flesh.

Even as the defenders sought to deny their foes the walls, the gates below them shuddered as orcs and hillmen moved to the fore with a battering ram. Shields held high over those who moved it, the ranks closed up about them, forming a carapace of leather and steel against the rain of arrows that those of Edoras sent down against them. Stones had some better success, but if ever one of the ram-wielders fell, another stepped quickly into his place and a new shield was raised above him. "If we cannot bring down that ram, then we must be ready on the ground," Éomer said grimly as he cut yet another rope.

"We have the company in the square," Aragorn replied, bracing himself against a parapet as the wall shuddered again. "The archers can retreat along the walls when the time comes. The longer they remain here, the fewer men we shall face!"

And so it was arranged. The majority of the archers were left to their own defenses under Aragorn's command, while Éomer took the rest to join their fellows in the square and await the fall of the gates. Gimli went with him. "I shall be of more assistance there than here! Unless I throw myself over the walls, I can do little but cut string!"

"Watch Éomer, Gimli," Aragorn warned just ere the Dwarf turned to make off after the others. "Keep him alive if you can, for we need him as long as fortune allows."

"I shall. Legolas," Gimli paused a moment, gazing up at the Elf. Legolas glanced down, and for a moment, their eyes met in the darkness. No words were exchanged, but at length, the prince of Mirkwood gave a sharp nod and then pivoted smartly into a draw, loosing yet another arrow into the swarming darkness below. Gimli grunted softly and then broke into a trot, soon disappearing down the steps to join Éomer. Even as he did so, new ropes and hooks came flying over the ramparts, to be cast down once more.

***

"How goes it?" Háma whirled at that unexpected voice, eyes widening in the torch-lit darkness atop the gates of the inner keep.

"My lady, why come you here?" he demanded. "And so attired?" For Éowyn wore not her customary white, nor even blue: tonight, the flame reflected off the mail that covered her, and an ordinary rider's tabard marked her as one of Rohan's own.

"Waste no words on my appearance, son of Héor," she replied rather coolly. "You know well wherefore I come. So tell me: how goes it?"

Háma licked his lips, hesitating. Technically, Éowyn's betrothal, forced or otherwise, meant she no longer had the right to carry that shield nor wield a sword. Certainly she ought not to be here without at least her brother's permission, which Éomer had refused as late as this afternoon. To Háma's mind, it had been an empty refusal, born of the Third Marshal's protective instincts and an unreasonably guilty conscience for what his sister had endured on his behalf. Nevertheless, he had said naught, refusing to involve himself in a family affair.

Yet now that Éowyn stood beside him, it was clear that she would not tolerate his denial, and Háma found himself thinking that he had seen more of Éowyn over the past few years than had Éomer. To the degree permitted, they had shared the danger of court intrigue and plotting behind the backs of their supposed betters; they had compromised their honor, lied to their king through omission and misdirection, and broken the laws of the land on principle.

And he had seen her grow colder, grow sterner… indeed, he had watched her wear herself out in the service of Rohan, to the point that she had at last prostrated herself— _And is that not an apt term?_ he thought with an inward wince—to shield Edoras's last remaining Marshal. _I am not her father, and I should not presume to think her my sister_ , he told himself firmly. Nevertheless, if she was not blood kin, she had certainly done as much for him as any blood-brother Háma had ever had. _My apologies, Éomer!_

"'Tis hard to say from here, but hear you that beat?" And when she nodded, he continued, "That is the sound of a battering ram. When it ceases, we shall know that the gates have fallen. After that…." He shrugged slightly. "Have you fought in mail before, my lady?"

"I have practiced with it at times."

"Then you know its weight," Háma replied as he turned to face her fully. Éomund's daughter stood tall and cold as ice, her long hair caught in a simple braid and coiled tightly at the base of her neck to keep it out of her face. Very young she looked, and her radiance muted, yet she did not fidget or tremble. _That may be a good sign… or it may not_ , Háma thought. He had seen many a young lad before his first battle: some could not hold still, others threw up; some wept, and some chattered like idiots.

_And some of them do not move at all, as if they had been turned to stone. Unpredictable, those few… sometimes tragically so_. "My lady," he said therefore, reaching out to touch her shoulder gently, commanding with that touch and tone her complete attention. Cocking her head, she turned dark blue eyes upon him, and Háma considered his next words carefully ere he spoke. "I do not doubt that what training you have received is among the best in the land. I do not doubt your courage, for I have seen it too often to believe you will wilt before a threat. But this is not the practice ground, and when they come through those gates you may not hesitate. Weep if you must—none shall think less of you—but be certain you do not miss your target. That is the only honor that matters here. Do you understand?"

Éowyn was silent for a moment, but then she nodded, once and sharply, and she did not smile as she said gravely, "I understand. Do you the same."

"Never fear," Háma muttered, turning back to watch the darkened streets of Edoras. And it was then that he realized that he heard no longer the ram.

***

"Fall back!" Legolas unfolded from his crouch at Aragorn's command, and he darted along the catwalk as the archers closest to the gates began their retreat, shooting as they went. There was little danger of hitting one of their own men, for the enemy spilled in through the ruined gates like a black tide. Of course, the Dunlendings could now employ their own archers more effectively, and the man to Legolas's left jerked suddenly and collapsed with an arrow protruding from his chest. _And I begin to run short of shafts!_ the prince thought, even as he let off another shot and reached for his quiver once more. Beside him, Aragorn ducked an arrow and responded with one of his own, having claimed a bow and quiver from a fallen comrade early on.

As they approached the stairs that led down into the streets below, they began to bottleneck, as some of the archers took positions at the top of the steps and others fought to move past them, creating a tiered defense should any enemies attempt to follow them. Curses sounded in the night, for now the parapets that had protected them became a hindrance, constraining them to a space too narrow for easy maneuvering.

"By pairs, and keep shooting!" Aragorn snapped, thrusting an arm between a trio that attempted to extricate itself from the crush. He shoved two of the men forward and waited a beat ere he indicated the next two. "Go!" That helped, and as the line strung out and began to move more smoothly, Legolas waited patiently. There was no question that he would remain with Aragorn, and the others seemed to sense that, giving him what berth they could as they ran to their next position.

Below them rose the sounds of combat: war cries in strange tongues, the clamor and shriek of metal on metal, of violent collision… of agony as wounded and dying men fell before their enemies. Legolas could just make out what seemed to be a defensive formation centered around a standard, but he doubted that any but an Elf would be able to pick it out in the darkness and chaos. Nevertheless, he was certain that Éomer stood there, and with him Gimli. _I wonder how he fares? Can he truly handle that ax with only one hand?_ Legolas wondered as he bent his bow again.

His own injury troubled him little as of yet, for having fought his way back from the grips of his own despair and confusion, and freed now from the interference of the wizard's puppet, he had recourse to an Elf's active dream-life. All he need do was dream a place that matched the reality of the moment, save for the absence of pain. Such was the way of the Elves when necessity pressed hard, and so long as the body could physically tolerate the strain, and the mind remained disciplined, an Elf might last for days where a human would wither in moments. _Alas, Gimli has no such escape! And neither shall Éomer or Aragorn. And even my strength will fail in the end, when flesh can no longer withstand the demands of the mind._ But for the moment, unhampered by Gríma's proxy assaults, he felt nothing save a slight weakness, and for that he could compensate.

The routine of war claimed him, and he moved with it: there was but the bow and the battlefield below, punctuated by the necessary evasive dance to deny the enemy another victim. His Rohirric comrades flowed through the lens of elvish perception as an ant trail or a current in a river, predictable in its overall movement despite the chaos of its individual parts. Only Aragorn and those on the steps remained steady in that shifting stream, waiting for the last of the men to pass them by.

Something flared in the darkness below, and there came cries as the thatched roofs of some of the buildings—homes? Shops?—caught fire from a volley of flaming arrows. Legolas blinked, adjusting to the sudden glare of light, and then he smiled wickedly as he caught sight of the enemy at last. Dunlendings, orcs, and some who seemed to hover between the two races, hybrids without hope—Legolas picked a particularly large uruk and took swift but careful aim ere he loosed the shaft. As he nocked his next arrow, his target convulsed and collapsed, an elvish arrow buried in its chest. At his side, Aragorn cursed softly, and Legolas shifted his attention minutely to ask, "What is it?"

"They are already past them and into the streets. Éomer must retreat soon or he risks being cut off!" Aragorn replied tautly, laying a gauntleted hand on the elf's shoulder. "Come! Stair guard, fall back!" They ran after their fellows, pausing every so often to lend support to the positions that they passed, and Legolas grimaced. The enemy was moving swiftly—more swiftly, even, than anticipated despite the overwhelming numbers. _We may not last a full day_ , the prince realized. A swift glance up at Aragorn's face, visible in the starlight to elvish eyes, confirmed that premonition. The Ranger felt his stare, tearing his eyes from the scenes of death below to gaze for a moment at Legolas, and then he shook his head. "Come! We cannot linger!" And as the pair fell back, last of all in the line of archers, arrows whistled past them as their comrades shot beyond them to fell the first wave of enemies who streamed up the stairs behind them.

***

"Steady as you go!" Éomer shouted the command, sparing a moment to signal one of his lieutenants to take control of the fleeing left flank. Not that speed was not of the essence, but if they broke formation, they would never manage the next hundred yards. _Only a hundred yards, and then we reach the barriers!_ So short a distance, a pittance for one with a horse or even one reasonably swift, and yet so very far tonight as the enemy pressed them now from three sides. _I should have retreated sooner!_ Éomer cursed softly, acknowledging his fault. But he had not expected that the orcs and Dunlendings would be quite so quick to take up the pursuit. Of course, orcs grew fiercer when the numbers favored them, but even so, a determined resistance tended to make them more cautious.

_But they know we are doomed. They can smell it, likely, for I can. They feel their master's triumph._ Against such an outpouring of hateful glee and his own despair, it was a struggle to maintain discipline, and Éomer clung to it with painful tenacity. Ten yards became twenty, and twenty, fifty as Éomer marched his men back, step by step, and the wedge formation bent to accommodate the line of attack. In Gondor, they would have called it a _thangail_ , but the Rohirrim had a taste for gallows' humor: they called it an _opengrin_ , an open snare. _And I fear that there may be no way to hold it open!_ Éomer thought, silently marking off another five yards in his mind.

He would never know how they managed that retreat without being surrounded, but somehow, they did, and as they passed that invisible line, a sudden hail of arrows and stone erupted. At the same time, wagons and barrels that had been kept inside deserted houses were pushed out into the gap that opened as the foremost ranks of their enemies staggered forward, trying to escape the missiles. The others were caught behind the makeshift barrier for a fatal instant and the snipers and pike men hidden on rooftops and the upper floors of shops set upon them. That left the thirty or so orcs and Dunlendings that had broken through for the ragged survivors of Éomer's company. With a cry, the Rohirrim flung themselves back at their hunters, intent upon snatching such revenge as they might have ere they were forced to retreat again to the next choke-point. Éomer cried out, caught between hate and lust as he blocked a Dunlending's sword and moved forward to stab through the other's armor as if it were naught but cloth. The dying man's left hand gripped at his chest, closing on mail as the sword clattered to the ground and for a moment, the two stared at each other.

"Ha!" Blood splashed hot on Éomer's face and his opponent gave a gasp, then slid bonelessly through the Third Marshal's grasp. As he fell, a knife struck sparks on the stony walkway as it skittered out of the dead man's hand, and Gimli the Dwarf hefted his axe as he quirked a brow up at Éomer. "He who stands still is lost, Third Marshal! Move!" Glóin's son snarled at him, spinning his axe as he ducked under an orc's rush and then used that momentum to cleave through bone and flesh. Éomer shook himself, forcing himself away from the moment.

"To me, Eorlingas! Fall back!" For the tide was turning once more, and as those staging the ambush retreated to swell Éomer's ranks, he drew a deep breath. _Concentrate, son of Éomund! Do not become your father in this!_ "Fall back! Gimli," he added as the other trotted past him. And when he paused a moment, Éomer said simply, "Thank you."

"Live, Éomer. That is thanks enough!"

"For a little while at least!" he murmured, and though Gimli's eyes darkened at that, the Dwarf did not dispute his reply. Éomer glanced up quickly at the archers now fleeing along the rooftops, and then turned, calling orders to his men as he jogged up the sloping street. _Where is Aragorn? Has he reached the halfway mark yet?_ In the darkness, it was impossible to tell, and he had no time in any case to worry much about the other's likely predicament. The next point was four long blocks away, and the crash and clatter of wood told him that the barrier was down behind him.

***

A Wood Elf on the heights is in his element, and a wise opponent will not challenge him while he remains there. For Legolas had learned to dance along pathways far more precarious than the stony catwalks of Edoras, and when Aragorn ordered a stand, he turned on his enemies with the fierce grace of his kind. The archers along the eastern stretch of Edoras's ramparts had retreated past two stairways now, and approached a tower which would shield them for awhile from their foes. But ere any could retreat beyond that relative safety, the orcs and Dunlendings must be stayed awhile, and Legolas put away his bow even as he swept out his long dagger. Aragorn beside him had Andúril in his hands, and behind them Men unsheathed their blades, waiting for their turn. For the walk was broad enough for two men to fight effectively side by side, but no more, and though it was not so very far to the tower, against so eager an enemy, it seemed unlikely that two men—or rather, one Man and an Elf—could hold their places until they reached the door.

" _Elbereth!_ " Legolas hurled the name across the gap into his enemy's face and followed that cry with a stiff-knuckled blow just under the chin with his left hand, even as he swept his dagger upwards, aiming for the exposed portion of the Dunlending's throat. His left hand he pulled back and down, elbowing aside his opponent's strike as his own went in with the precision that comes of a millennium of practice. And then it was on to the next man, and the next, in what seemed an endless line of opponents as he backed slowly towards safety, letting his enemies leap over their fallen comrades to reach him.

At his side, Aragorn had a dagger in one hand and Andúril in the other, using his sword more as a shield, out of respect for the close quarters and Legolas's injury which might hamper his ability to compensate for a partner's maneuvers. And in truth, the Elf was grateful for the courtesy as he began to feel the strain of a prolonged fight. With a snarl, he ducked under a strike and transferred his blade to his left hand to spare his right shoulder. Even as he did so, two arrows shot through the air overhead to fell his opponent. Then it was on to the next man as behind him the Rohirrim began to mutter amongst themselves in awe as, despite the odds, Elf and Ranger continued the slow retreat, giving the rest of the men time to pass through the double doors to the other side and such respite as could be had.

"Rohan!" The cry drifted down, and of a sudden, arrows came once more, a solid volley as men reached arrow-loops further up in the tower and began to shoot down over their captain's head.

"Run!" Aragorn snapped, turning to sink his sword deep into Legolas's opponent ere he wrenched free and dashed for the door. The Elf wasted no time in following, and as they reached it, their waiting comrades slammed it shut and placed a metal bar across it to hold it closed. Legolas leaned his left shoulder against the wall, surreptitiously drawing a deep breath as he wiped sweat and blood from his brow, and he blinked against the sudden dimming of his vision. _The Darkness again!_ " _Bæcweard, her restath! Sceotanas, haeldath éower stede!_ " As responses came back, a gloved hand landed on his shoulder, and Legolas felt Aragorn lean close to ask quietly, "Are you well?"

"Are any of us?" Legolas asked, drawing a hand over his eyes ere he straightened up, unwilling to let others remark his lapse.

"The door should hold for a time, but our arrows are nearly spent. Once the last flight is loosed, we move on to the inner keep as swiftly as we may. I would rather have you at my side, but I think it best that you join the van rather than remain with the rearguard. Do not argue with me in this, Legolas!" the Ranger added, sensing a protest rising. "Rohan may never have seen your like, but I know well that that was not your best defense."

"Nevertheless, it was adequate," Legolas replied, but then he held up a hand to stay the other's retort. "I do not argue with you, and I shall obey, if not happily. This is not the time for contention. Only take care, Aragorn."

A brief silence greeted this admonition, and then the hand on his shoulder tightened. Legolas could feel in that touch the other's concern, his fear… his quiet despair. "I shall. Go now with Bethor and retreat to the keep." With that, Aragorn turned away, raising his voice to address said Bethor in Rohirric. The man nodded and, obedient to the Ranger's orders, the men divided themselves up: those who had arrows, and those who did not. Once the rearguard began its retreat, they would all be utterly dependant upon sword-work until they reached the gates of the inner keep and the _fyrd_ guard could provide them with cover.

" _Forth, gáth!_ " Bethor's gruff voice snapped out the command and they began to move. Legolas ran in their midst, feeling as a leaf borne away by the wind. The tower receded behind them, and when he dared a glance back over his shoulder, he could no longer see Aragorn standing in the door frame.

***

"We are cut off." At that, Gimli glanced up wearily at the tall-standing silhouette beside him, watching as the dimly flickering light of home and hope gone up in ashes played on the Third Marshal's face. Blood soaked his tabard, and grime from the flames coated him, underscoring his pale skin and eyes. A cut on one cheek from a back-handed swipe was encrusted with it, and Éomer exhaled slowly, gripping his sword tightly. He had lost his shield some time ago to a blow that had cracked the wood down to the metal boss, but thus far no enemy had managed to take advantage of that loss.

"Can we cut our way through?"

The Man grimaced and gestured with his sword at the corpse-strewn streets, the men crouching anxiously behind what cover they could find, waiting for the next assault. "I doubt it. We shall do well to hold here even an hour, for we are too few now. I should not have thought they would come so swiftly or fiercely. 'Tis as if they see not the danger to themselves…."

"Perhaps they do not," Gimli replied darkly. "Perhaps the wizard blinds them to it, driving them onward. Often on this journey have I wondered at my own weariness, and that of my companions. At Legolas in especial…." The Dwarf shook his head. "Whatever force it is lends them strength, I shall be content enough if it does not leech me of mine!" Éomer grunted at that, seeming to agree, but he spoke no more, only watched the night in silence.

And Gimli sighed softly to himself as he gazed up at the heights to the east, wondering if Legolas and Aragorn had yet reached the keep, or if they, too, were trapped, held in place by an enemy too strong to overcome. _Good luck, my friends! For I do not think I shall see you again, unless Mahal himself intervenes._ And as it seemed more likely that lightning would strike, the Dwarf settled himself for the final, grim wait. _I would have liked to stand at your side, Legolas, and to assure Aragorn that one can, indeed, wield an axe one-handed. Ah well. Mayhap there will be another place for such words._ Clouds out of the northwest, moving down from the mountains, crept over the sky, and as the winds began to blow in earnest, the enemy swept forward once more.

* * *

thangail: military formation. See "Unfinished Tales", p. 294 for a full explanation. Essentially an arc that curves back until it closes.

Bæcweard, her restath! Sceotanas, haeldath éower stede!—Rearguard, stay here! Archers, hold your post!

Thanks to HF for suggesting "bæcweard" for "rearguard."

Finally, the fyrd guard that I refer to is not something I personally have researched. My source (sadly) is Park Godwin's most excellent Robin Hood story, "Sherwood." As it was used there, the fyrd men were free men who made up a part of a lord's levy. They usually didn't wield swords--I think that might have been illegal--but formed the archery contingent or were in with pikes, clubs, etc. I like the idea, so I'm borrowing them, real or fictional, for Rohan.


	20. Dust to Dust

 Cold wind swept over the plains, bearing with it dark clouds. Chill, humid air, wet with the promise of rain, brought out the scent of churned earth and sweet grass, mixing with the dust of the ages. The land lay still under a pregnant silence, save for the creak and groan of wood and the rustle of leafy hair. Pippin shivered in his cloak but leaned forward from his perch on Bregalad's shoulders, braving the cold and breezy currents. Pointless to ask how soon they would arrive, for the Ent's answer had not varied since their abrupt departure from Fangorn: "Soon enough, my hobbits, quite soon enough!" Soon, the young Took thought, wondering once again whether they did right. Two days ago, Bregalad had predicted that tonight they would move for Isengard, and he and Merry had been prepared to wait out the delay. But no sooner had he spoken, it seemed, than a great uproar had sounded, as if every Ent at the Entmoot had howled.

"What is it? What does that mean?" Merry had asked, alarmed, but Bregalad had simply laughed again, though Pippin had thought he detected a note of surprise in that trumpeted amusement.

"'Tis a sign that even Ents grow hasty! Come, my little ones, we go now! To Isengard!" And so they had. All that afternoon the Ents had marched ceaselessly, and if either hobbit had wondered how so few Ents could possibly assault the tower that had held even Gandalf captive, they soon realized that the Ents were not alone. In droves— _Or rather, groves!_ Pippin thought—the trees of Fangorn forest followed, uprooting themselves casually to shake the earth from their roots and march along behind in a seemingly endless line. Hoots and calls, songs sung in the voices of woodwinds had spurred them on at first, but as they had approached the Isen, the Ents had grown silent… grimly silent. And as they had drawn nigh to the circle of Isengard, the forest's march had halted quite suddenly on some unspoken signal. It took little wit to understand why, as masses of orcs and Men had marched by in a long, winding column.

"Where do they go, do you think?" Pippin had whispered to Bregalad, and then had had to clutch tightly at the Ent's hair as Bregalad shrugged, nearly dislodging Merry and Pippin in the process.

"I know not. It shall not matter, though, for I shall follow them whithersoever they go. I, and my flocks for the memory of lost trees and springs!"

"What about Saruman?"

"That is our business tonight, but fear not! We had spoken of this earlier, in the Entmoot. Once Isengard is finished, we shall move south again."

Pippin shivered again, but this time not because of the wind, but at the memory of the destruction of that stony circle. _Old Man Willow was terrifying enough! he thought. But he never moved. I wonder whether he might not be one those sleeping Ents—a Huorn, like these others._ It was not a pleasant thought, if it were so, but for the moment, it helped to keep his mind from the coming confrontation. For Isengard was drowned, and the Watchwood stood guard under Treebeard's tireless old eyes, and so Bregalad and a number of the younger Ents, whose flocks stood nearest the borders of the forest and so had suffered the worst depredations of the orcs, moved now to collect their proper revenge.

_And we go with them, Merry and I!_ Pippin drew a deep breath, feeling a spark of wrath cut through his dread. _Though we may not be much use at all, we go, for we, too, have a grievance with the orcs! And because we may not linger with Treebeard forever._ It was an odd feeling, that certainty that they must move on—at once urgent, so that it suffused Pippin's very being, and yet it was a wrench as well, for of all races, hobbits were a most settled sort of folk. _I could never be like Strider,_ Pippin decided. _Yet I think what I feel now must be a little like what he feels. You can see it in him. I saw it when we first set out together, but I never understood it 'til now._ That was enough to draw yet a third shiver from the young hobbit, who had never looked to understand what stirred the heart and soul of a Man like Aragorn.

"Look Pip!" Merry, too, leaned forward, pointing to a reddish glow on the horizon. "Fire!"

"I see it!" Pippin replied, glancing up at Bregalad's face. In the darkness, it was difficult to see much, but he thought that the Ent seemed eager, which was a most unusual expression on one of that deliberate and patient species.

"Aye, fire. The fires of war," Bregalad rumbled. "There lie the homes of the Men of this land, who are named "Rohirrim," and thither are we bound. We shall reach them soon."

Merry and Pippin exchanged another look, but this time, Merry's face showed pale and grim, without any of the wry skepticism that had previously greeted such remarks. _Soon. What sort of Men are they, I wonder?_ Vaguely, he recalled that Boromir had thought highly of the Rohirrim, and Aragorn as well, apparently. But Rivendell seemed so very distant, a tale out of another lifetime, even, and Pippin felt a thrill of anxious concern run through him once more. _Boromir and Strider, Legolas and Gimli… Sam and Frodo! Where are they now? Or are they dead?_

The Ent-host marched onward, and soon indeed, Edoras's ruined gates loomed before them.

***

Aragorn swore softly as the hinges on the door rattled in their casings, and the casings themselves bent. "Retreat!" he hollered up into the stairwell, and then wisely stood back as men came clattering down, sprinting with near reckless haste to abandon the tower. In truth, he had expected to be forced back far earlier, but some of the men had had nearly full quivers, having been in the vanguard most of the long way back from the gates, and the door had proved more resistant than foreseen. Still, it would be very close indeed, as another blow actually dented the metal of the door, and several of the archers flinched at the noise. "Keep moving!" Aragorn snapped at them, half-shoving a cluster of men out the other side of the tower. "Go! Draw your swords!" That, as he drew Andúril by way of example. Another blow, and one of the hinge casings broke, just as the last few men darted down the stairs.

"Last man down!" cried one of them, giving Aragorn a sharp nod. Together, the two dashed after the rest of the company, the line of archers sprinting for their lives towards the southern walls. One more flight of stairs awaited them, and then an empty cross-street, carefully cordoned off, that would intersect the main road along which the ground forces would eventually retreat, assuming that they survived so long. To judge by the lines of burning neighborhoods, Aragorn suspected that few would make it so far. _And those few may not have the strength to withdraw to the keep!_ In fact, he could make out but one, beleaguered circle of defenders, perhaps a quarter mile from the gates. The flames showed them up, and Aragorn grimaced as he realized that they were surrounded. _Which means that we know not what might wait for us before those gates! And if we know not…_

A Ranger learned the meaning of haste early on, and Aragorn made use of it now, slipping between men to reach the head of the line just as they began to take the stairs. "Eorlingas to me! Be ready!" Down they went, hurrying along the cross-street, and the Ranger gripped Andúril hard. If the enemy were wise, there would be a small company waiting just out of bow-shot, waiting to warn of the approach of anyone from the keep. And beyond them …

***

"What is that?" Legolas's voice sounded sharply, and Théoden, Háma, and Éowyn all turned to stare at the Elf. Théoden had joined them some time ago, the old king standing sad and silent as he watched his city burn. Éowyn stood beside him, and to his credit, he had taken but a look at his niece and said nothing, only laid a hand upon her shoulder and squeezed tightly. Then he, like the other three, had turned his attention to the fight below, watching it wind closer and closer as time and Saruman's treachery wore away at their defenses. Now though, he stared at the Elf, and his blue eyes were intent in the torch-light.

"Legolas?" he asked.

"There, by the gates… I had not looked there before, but now I see it! Something large moves in the night," the prince of Mirkwood replied, leaning forward on a parapet. "I know not what it is, though. I should say trolls of some sort, and yet… " He shook his head.

"Trolls?" Háma demanded with weary incredulity, squinting into the night, cursing the smoke and darkness.

"I should be flattered Saruman thinks so much of us!" Théoden sighed softly.

"Are you certain of this?" Éowyn asked sharply from beyond her uncle.

"Nay, my lady, I am not. The reason of my mind tells me it must be trolls, for I know of nothing else that they could be, yet my heart says otherwise. There is… a darkness there… yet 'tis different from Saruman's spells. I can say no more, however," Legolas added, sounding disappointed. "It moves swiftly though. Look!" As the four watched, the large, shadowy line approached, moving at an incredible pace and advancing on the hindmost ranks of the Isengarders. _If they are trolls, then the Isengarders shall move aside to let them pass_ , the Elf thought. _And yet… why would trolls come so late? In but a few hours, the sun shall rise, and unless Saruman has found a way to do for trolls what he has done for his orcs, they shall perish!_

The rear lines of the enemy were turning towards the approaching host, and as the prince watched, the entire formation seemed to ripple, as the hindmost ranks surged forward. The Elf could pick out Dunlendings and orcs scrambling desperately, shoving at their comrades… and then it was as if a cloud passed over them, one that even an Elf's eyes could not pierce. " _Elbereth Gilthoniel_ …" he murmured, awe-struck. Even as he gazed, something else caught his attention, though from much closer at hand. "Aragorn!"

"What say you now?" Théoden demanded.

"Aragorn! Look, his company comes not to the keep but turns! He must have realized that the enemy had passed the last unit. I think he goes now to try to join the others, rather than retreat with the enemy on his heels. Yes, he makes for the ring of defenders." Beside him, Háma uttered an oath, while Éowyn's eyes turned once more back to the flame-lit square. In the mean time, the shadowy host was pressing forward in earnest, and Legolas closed his eyes, tasting of that veiling darkness, wondering at it. _'Tis not Saruman's work… nay, 'Tis no wizard's crafting, I think, but the rage of a wounded creature…_ "Such hate…"

He was scarcely aware of having spoken aloud until Théoden's words startled him. "Such hate indeed! But it seems to me that it is for the orcs and our enemies more than for us," the old man replied, and there was a measure of new life to his voice as resolution entered it.

"Come!" he cried then, and all along the battlements, men looked up towards their king. "Let us take such chances as fortune offers! Forth, Eorlingas!" Háma followed immediately, and all around the heights, the cry was taken up. Soon, it echoed all about the keep, but Legolas remained where he was an instant, held in place by the confusing events below. And then his eyes went to Éowyn, who, but for her recent question, had stood silently by for so long. No word she spoke, but she returned that look briefly, defiantly, and then followed her king and uncle down the steps. With a shake of his head, Legolas went swiftly after her, feeling hope flicker, ghost-like, in his heart.

***

"Help comes! Lord Ælric to us!" The cry went up from the southern arc of their circle, and Éomer, glancing back, was in time to see the collision as a roar of Rohirrim voices broke out on that side. Éomer's men staggered back as the orcs and Dunlendings were fairly thrust into their midst by the newcomers. There was a moment of shock but it was quickly covered over as the reinforcements swarmed over their displaced enemies, dispatching them with all the fervor of the walking dead. In the mean time, the northern arc was steadily being pushed back, bending as pikes were broken and their foes moved in closer. At least he could move the line back a bit, now…

"Éomer!" The Third Marshal cursed softly as he turned his attention to the newcomers once more and saw Aragorn standing there. "Hold your line!"

"If we move now, we may be able to come a little closer to the walls!" Éomer replied, gesturing to the struggling shield-wall. Aragorn shook his head, glanced about, and his mouth tightened.

"We cannot retreat!" the Ranger replied, and then quickly turned his attention to the men he had brought with him. "Spread out! Wythláf, take the north arc. Spread out!" Men hastened to obey, distributing themselves about the four quarters of the circle, though the north and south claimed more men than the east and west, which faced much narrower alleyways. And then, ere Éomer could question why, Aragorn added, "They are on our heels! And the others who wait for those in the keep to emerge come now in our wake!" Even as he spoke, fierce cries from the south indicated the arrival of the enemy, and Éomer cursed, coughing as he inhaled a lungful of smoke. "Where is Gimli?" the Dúnadan demanded.

"At your service," the Dwarf's voice sounded as he stepped suddenly from behind Éomer, and the Marshal startled badly. Gimli and Aragorn shared a significant look, but it was too brief for Éomer to fathom its meaning. Nevertheless, it inspired a nod as the Ranger laid a hand on the Dwarf's shoulder as if in gratitude. "Where is Legolas?" Gimli asked, voicing the question that Éomer had been about to submit.

"I sent him and the vanguard back to the keep, as planned. But I could not lead the rest back with the enemy waiting for the gates to open," Aragorn replied, shifting his gaze from the Dwarf to the Marshal. "From a standing start, we could not break through again, not with these on our backs," the Ranger nodded at the howling masses attacking the northern line.

"Well then," Éomer replied, and that was all. _What else is there to say?_ the Third Marshal thought bitterly, turning back to watch as the line, even with Aragorn's reinforcements, began once more to bend… to buckle, really. The other did not question his silence, and on unspoken agreement, the two captains split up once more, going back to their respective posts: Éomer to the northern circuit, and Aragorn to the southern, there to urge the men on, determined to hold out as long as possible. To Éomer's surprise, the Dwarf stayed at his side rather than joining his friend, but the Third Marshal had no chance to question that decision.

A knot of Uruk-hai clawed their way over two of the guard, and even as Éomer stepped into the breach, another group of orcs brought down the man beside him, overwhelming him even as those behind him struggled to plug the gap with their bodies, to drag their comrade out from under the murderous knives of their enemies even while holding the line intact. Gimli joined the fray with a guttural shout in his own strange tongue, but the ranks before them surged, like a wave striking the shore. Éomer staggered back and cried out in pain when an orcish fist struck the gash on his cheek as the orc in question was bodily propelled over the Marshal's shoulder.

Unable to resist the sudden crush of bodies, the north arc of the circle was driven back. Men tripped on corpses, friend and foe alike, and were thrust back despite all efforts to resist. But those who were forced to retreat were fortunate: their fellows were simply buried under the writhing masses of orcs and Dunlendings, who, not content to overbear the Rohirrim, were climbing over each other. Some part of Éomer's mind found time to wonder at that, for it seemed almost as if they themselves sought escape….

An orc leapt for him, springing from the backs of two faltering comrades, and Éomer slashed blindly, but retreated nonetheless 'til he collided with someone else. Friend or foe, he could not tell, but the other seemed just as hard-pressed, for neither spared the time to strike back with a dagger or even an elbow. For a moment, he braced himself against the other's back and raised his sword, but it was as if he fought the sea. Through the haze of smoke and ash, the orcs and Dunlendings came rushing over the piles of their own dead, rising like a wave, screaming incoherently as they came.

One of them hit Éomer squarely in the chest, and the weight and shock were irresistible. With a cry, the Third Marshal went down as others landed atop him, crushing the air from his lungs. Pain lanced through him as he shoved desperately at the others, but his arms were pinned almost immediately. Sound dwindled, and a feeling of numbness spread throughout his body even as he vainly gasped for air. _This is what it is to die…_ The thought occurred, and was torn away from him in a faltering heartbeat.

And then something happened. A jolt or a spasm seemed to pass through him, and Éomer twitched as a second blow seemed to land. Then a third, as sound seemed to return with such intensity that he winced and automatically made as if to cover his ears. To his surprise, he found that he could… just as he was flung aside like a rag doll, along with a number of others. The Third Marshal landed hard, but the shock of it started him breathing again, at least, and he gasped painfully as he lurched to all fours like a stricken beast. Muzzily, he wiped strands of hair from his face and tried to focus his eyes. _Am I blind?_ he wondered, feeling a sudden thrill of panic at the thought, for he could not see. There was blood smeared on his face, but though he knew his eyes were open, all seemed dark about him.

Screams of terror punctuated the darkness, and there sounded now a creaking and groaning, as of tortured ships at harbor in a storm. Dust and earth scent filled his nostrils, mingling suffocatingly with the acrid stench of smoke, and Éomer sneezed violently at the same time that a coughing fit took him. A blood-curdling shriek came from somewhere to his left, seeming quite close, and the Third Marshal jerked, crawling forward now in search of a weapon. For 'twas no Man that made that sound, but an orc. _Or something worse!_ Éomer thought, seeking blindly in the shadows. When he found naught, he cursed, staggering to his feet though every bone and muscle seemed to scream protest.

"Éomer!" A voice in the darkness, sharp and distorted with constrained fear, reached him, and he heard now other cries in Rohirric. A few Dunlending voices stole through the thickened air, and others that were clearly orcish filled the air. "Éomer!"

"Ara…gorn?" the Third Marshal wheezed painfully, swearing to himself as his voice failed in the end.

"Éomer?" Dazedly, Éomer began to make his way towards that voice, hoping at least to find one other who might have some better sense of what was happening. _At least I begin to be able to see somewhat in this shadow!_ Nevertheless, he had not gone far ere he stumbled against something hard and tall, rough… wooden … _A tree?_ Éomer blinked and squinted up uncertainly into the shadows. Just then, hoarse, guttural cries sounded behind him, and Éomer, cursing, turned as three or four vaguely orcish shapes moved towards him. And for the first time in his life, he simply froze. Still stunned and confused, he did not think to reach for the daggers at his belt, nor even to move; perhaps a part of him could not quite accept that he yet lived. But whatever the reasons, Éomer stared as the orcs flew towards him… and then the tree at his back lurched. At the same time, a fourth shape appeared from his right, and despite the darkness, he saw the glitter of firelight play off of a scything blade. And a hoarse voice bellowed:

"Move, you fool of a Man!" Gimli, Glóin's son, snapped with no patience whatsoever as he took the first orc. That tone cut through the confusion clouding his mind, and Éomer's hand went swiftly for the dagger he suddenly remembered that he had. But ere ever he could use it, the tree seemed to sway, and long, leafy branches dipped. Éomer ducked under one, but felt sharp-edged leaves rake across his face and the back of the hand he flung up to shield himself. A moan, like timber about to crack beneath a strong wind, filled the air, and an orc landed dead at his feet. Other moans and hoots sounded, and there was more creaking as several of the trees shifted, and of a sudden, Éomer could taste free air again. Still laden with smoke and blood it was, but lighter nonetheless as reddish light illuminated what had been an enclosed space.

The Third Marshal snarled then as more orcs appeared, apparently having been driven to this point by the shifting of the trees. Flinging out an arm, he let the edge of his blade scrape along an orc's throat, then spun to ram the dagger into a the chest of a second. That gave him double-vision and such a splitting headache that he missed the next orc completely, collapsing to his knees with his back to his enemy. It likely saved his life, for he felt the wind of his foe's swift passage, and as he looked up once more, he saw the orc stumble past him and into range of Gimli the Dwarf. But even as the Dwarf whirled to strike at the foul creature, the tree moved once more, and Éomer cried out in wordless warning.

The orc shrieked, leaping left and ducking as Gimli, cursing, tried to follow. Mayhap had he not been so weary already, it would not have happened. But the Dwarf had been overwhelmed by the same wave of bodies that Éomer had, and earlier at that. Only his smaller stature had let him find space enough to breathe 'til he had been unexpectedly rescued. Still, though formidable enough against the orcs, his control was fraying, and he swung too wide, unable to fight the momentum. The blade glanced off of the orc's armor and buried itself instead in the tree's trunk. A horrible blast of sound—like the shrill of a flute, yet far louder, deeper, and overlaid with an incredible dissonance that might otherwise have been harmony—went up, and Gimli was swept off of his feet by an arm-like branch. The Dwarf hit a second tree, bounced off of it, and landed with a thud on the ground, there to lie motionless as Éomer clambered to his feet and staggered towards him.

Falling to his knees once more, he laid a hand over the Dwarf's heart, but it is difficult to feel anything through a corselet. "Gimli! Gimli? Speak if you can!" Éomer felt a shiver run through him as something rumbled behind him, like a drum, almost, and he turned to stare up at the tree that stood over him. At the trees, rather, for he realized that he was surrounded of a sudden. "Béma… " Awe-struck, incredulous, he stared up, slack-jawed, and waited for the blow to come.

Yet it never did. A deep-voiced trumpeting sounded insistently close at hand, and the trees seemed to shudder, swaying back like reeds in a storm. For no reason that he could comprehend, they retreated, leaving him alone with Gimli as, at last, the rain began to fall.

***

When he had felt the shield wall break, felt someone driven against his back, Aragorn had known he had but one choice: to move forward or perish, though the way forward was a gauntlet of grim swords and knives, all thirsting for his blood. But wonder of wonders, even as he plunged ahead into the ranks of the enemy with such men as had wits enough to follow, the orcs and Dunlendings retreated, crying out in terror. Whatever they saw, the Ranger wasted no time turning to stare, but pressed forward swiftly in an effort to out-race the masses at his back. Friend and foe alike had run, seeking to avoid whatever new terror stalked their ranks, or else to avoid being crushed.

And so they had met Théoden's forces, streaming out of the keep on an Elf's hope and desperation. The Isengarders, caught between the hammer and anvil, had not known which way to turn, and for the first time that night, Aragorn had found himself in control of the battle. Turning once more, he and his ragged band of survivors had met the rest of Saruman's army as it streamed towards the Rohirrim ranks. And behind them had come the tall-standing shadows, their creaking advance punctuated by screams. Aragorn had seen bodies flung aside with reckless abandon, and what happened to those who fell under the shadow, he knew not. For a time, he dared not distract himself with the riddle, for there were still orcs and Dunlendings aplenty to subdue.

But in the end, he and the others stood at the edge of the square where he and Éomer had thought to die, and stared at the woods. Beside him, Théoden murmured something under his breath ere he managed, "How is this possible? What are they?"

"Is it some trickery? Some elvish spell?" asked another rider.

"Nay," Legolas had replied, stepping forward to gaze intently at the trees. "Nay, this is no work of elvish craft! They are real… real, and they speak of ages uncounted. Can you not hear it? Do you not smell it?" the elven prince demanded, turning to let his green gaze sweep over the ranks of stunned, fearful Men. "Aragorn?"

"Valar… " The Ranger's eyes narrowed as he stalked forward then, struck suddenly by the musty, earthen scent, and memory found a swift match. _That smell, and the creaking and wailing…_ A dark and bewildering night it had been beneath the boughs of… "Fangorn!" he breathed, and shot Legolas a look of sudden comprehension. "Did not Celeborn warn us?"

"So he did," Legolas replied, a note of awe in his voice.

"Ents," Aragorn murmured.

"Ents are naught but children's tales!" Háma exclaimed, frowning.

"Indeed, for Men are naught but children to Elves, and so we say not Ents, but Onodrim," Legolas replied as he began to drift towards the trees despite the horrible cries that still sounded from beneath the eaves. But in amidst the cries of orcs and Dunlendings, there were Rohirric cries as well, and slowly, the foremost ranks of Théoden's host began to follow the Elf.

"Is it wise to dare this copse?" Aragorn asked quietly.

"I know not," the Elf replied softly, but did not slow his advance. "But many are the Men trapped there, though it seems to me that their voices remain constant, whereas the orcish cries diminish in strength and number. Yet surely we may not abandon them! Many may be hurt, or confused…" And although all of this was quite true, Aragorn knew that it was not Men that concerned one Legolas son of Thranduil. Nevertheless, he said only:

"True enough. But I think not all need enter these woods. Go ahead, I shall find you in a moment." Pausing, then, he turned and went quickly to Théoden.

"What news?" the king asked.

"None, save that I think it best that most of the men remain here, and only those with some experience of a forest enter. We cannot afford panic beneath these eaves."

"Then your numbers shall be few, for ours is not a forested land," the king replied, frowning as he signaled a halt to the Rohirrim. Staring at the trees a moment, Théoden seemed to consider somewhat ere he turned to cock a snowy brow at the Ranger. "What know you of this wood?"

"Little, but that it is not wise to injure it in any way. There is a great power in Fangorn, and if these are Ents, as seems the only explanation, then even Legolas is out of his depth, sire, for he is young among his kind," Aragorn said, and refrained from adding that even Celeborn of Doriath might not have met an Ent since the fall of Beleriand.

"Yet some, perhaps many, of my people remain caught in it," the king shook his head. "We may not leave them to wander lost. Forest-craft we lack, but there are those here who can keep a clear head and know their direction even in a blind night on the plains. These I shall take, and be cautious of the trees!"

"As you will it, my king," Aragorn bowed his acquiescence.

"Go then, and see whom you may find while we follow more slowly."

"Aye, my lord." As the Ranger hurried away, he heard Théoden raise his voice to address the Rohirrim, though he heeded the speech but little, mind already focused on the trees, and on Éomer. Legolas was already gone ahead of him, and to track an Elf was a nearly impossible task, so he dismissed the notion. _Surely I can trust the prince of Mirkwood to find his own way in a forest! Éomer, though… if he lives, he shall be only little less lost than I!_ So he thought, and hoped indeed that the Third Marshal lived, for if he did not… _Then the House of Eorl is fallen, and we shall have lost another to this Darkness_. It was a grim thought, and it spurred him onward, propelling him into the woods.

The moment he crossed the line of shadow beneath the trees, the world of Edoras seemed to fade, to recede before the memory of wilder times and places. Aragorn paused a moment, letting the feel of this space wash over him 'til senses overwhelmed with the novelty of it all ceased to tingle and cringe with every new stimulus. Nevertheless, he made certain to grip the hilt of a dagger rather than of Andúril, for fear that he might hit something unintentionally with the sword's greater reach.

"Éomer? Gimli?" he called into the darkness, then moved quickly aside as a tree drifted past. Out of curiosity, he knelt and picked up one of the displaced cobblestones, turning it in his hands. It was too dark for even a Ranger's eyes to make out much detail, but his fingers found the grooves, and he shook his head. "Trees," he muttered, tossing the rock aside as he rose once more. "Gimli? _Éomer, hierest thu mé?_ "

No answer but the groan of stressed wood and rain on the treetops… and the cries and calls of the lost. Still, he pressed on, aiming northwest, guessing that Éomer might be near their last position ere the circle had collapsed. He tried calling to the others that he could hear, but it seemed that they could not hear him. Cursing softly, he was about to turn his course due west after what seemed to him a larger group of Rohirrim when suddenly he heard his name called. Or rather, one of his names:

"Strider!"

"Who calls…?" His voice trailed off as he turned to behold two small figures dashing towards him in the gloom. _Impossible!_ So said reason, even as wonder deeper than the wells of time struck him to the core. Standing stiff as a tree himself, unable to move, he watched as Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took came hurtling towards him, laughing with relief at the sight of him. And then just as they reached him, he felt his knees unlock. Sinking to the ground, he swayed slightly as an armful of hobbit crashed into him, and he felt his breath catch hard.

"You're safe!" Merry kept saying over and over into his ear, and Pippin clutched him tight.

"Safe? We thought you were dead!" he finally managed, easing back out of their embrace a bit so he could look at each of them. "Gimli and Legolas and I… we believed you were dead!"

"We did, too, for awhile," Pippin admitted, and then gave Strider an oddly solemn stare. "What about Sam and Frodo? And Boromir?"

Which brought them round again to painful memories, and Aragorn shook his head in swift decision. "No time for news yet. We must find the others and see them safely out of this place," said he as he rose.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry too much. Bregalad says that the trees only care about the orcs and others of Saruman's foul brood. If the men stay where they are, or at least don't hurt the trees, the Huorns will move on and leave them alone ere the night is done," Merry replied.

"Huorns?"

"These here," Pippin gestured about to the swaying trees. "Not really Ents, but not asleep either. Bregalad and some of the others are keeping watch, and they're doing all they can to make certain that nothing happens to the Men of Rohan. These are Rohirrim, I take it?"

"They are. I fear, though, that they are not familiar with forests at all. Best we seek them, for I would not have anyone, Ent or Man or Huorn, hurt over a mistake," Aragorn replied, feeling a sense of grim foreboding pulse through him. Glancing down once more at the hobbits, he added, "I fear I left Pippin's dagger in an orc earlier, but here is yours, Merry. You may need it yet."

Merry accepted his Barrow-blade with a soft snort, as if of amazement, and he nodded his thanks up at the tall Man. "Thank you. I never did think to see this again. Well, shall we?"

"Let us go!"

Legolas ducked gracefully beneath a low-hanging branch, trailing his fingers along the bark of the tree. Sensuous, the feel of that wood beneath his palm, and the Elf sighed softly. Were it not for their wrath, their pain and hatred, he could have listened to their voices for an eternity without ever tiring of them. _Even Mirkwood is not thus! There, the trees dream diffusely, glad with the passing of seasons. Like children they are, but these… Ah, now I begin to understand the grief of the Sindar of Doriath!_

But he could not tarry long in such thoughts, for he had a task to attend to and a friend to find. For of one thing he was certain: Gimli would not appreciate Fangorn's wonders, not without an interpreter. And Legolas began to grow once more uneasy, for now that he felt he had the measure of the shadow of Fangorn, he grew more conscious of the pulse of Darkness once more. _Once more… or has it ever truly withdrawn? Saruman's crafting, I thought it, and that seems to me still correct. Yet… yet at the same time, ought it not to lighten, now that his army and puppet are defeated?_ The bad moments he had had on the heights, as he and Aragorn had retreated in the face of their enemies came back to him, and he wondered at that sudden resurgence of weakness. Even now, he could feel it hunting him, and only an effort of will and the need to find Gimli and Éomer kept it at bay. Once he had the opportunity, he knew he would need to rest. _Yet faced with such Darkness, I fear to dream too deeply, for I remember well my nightmares!_

Pausing a moment, the prince of Mirkwood considered his surroundings. As he had charged with Théoden and the forces of the inner keep, he had not known where Gimli and Éomer might have been in all of the confusion. Aragorn, though, would have a better idea of where to look, and so Legolas closed his eyes, listening. Elvish ears soon picked through the competing voices of trees, orcs, Dunlendings, Rohirrim, and the steady beat of rain to distinguish a familiar voice…

_West!_ Blinking his eyes open once more, he called out, "Aragorn!" And after a moment, a sharp, high-pitched whistle came back at him, causing the Elf to smile slightly for the other's sense of the moment. Pursing his lips, he whistled the appropriate call back and headed towards the sound.

It took perhaps ten minutes and quite a few whistle-calls for the pair to find each other, but when at last Legolas caught sight of the Ranger, he called out once more, "Aragorn! Where—" And then stopped dead as Merry and Pippin smiled up at him. "But… you…" he stammered in a most un-elvish manner, staring wide-eyed. Neither Aragorn nor Gimli had said aught of the hobbits since their return from Fangorn. In all fairness, there had been little time for tales, but the Elf had sensed a deliberate avoidance of the issue, and the hobbits' conspicuous absence had been answer enough to any question that he might have asked. Now though…

"You thought we were dead, yes, we know. 'Twas not as if we didn't fear the same of you!" Pippin replied, filling in the awkward pauses. Beyond them, Legolas sensed the glow of Aragorn's almost painful relief and he knew that the Dúnadan was smiling as the prince knelt down to stare (almost) at eye-level at the two hobbits.

Aragorn, indeed, was smiling as he watched this latest reunion, but his quick ears caught sound of yet another call, one that seemed oddly close at hand. Cocking his head, he listened intently, and after but a moment, it came again. " _Aragorn?_ "

"Éomer?" Glancing back once at the Elf and hobbits, the Ranger decided that they would do well enough alone for a short time, and left them to themselves as he hurried off towards the sound of his name. And indeed, the other was quite close, although the trees about him seemed unusually active, shifting about and forcing Aragorn to turn out of his way several times to avoid them.

At last, though, he ducked around a stand of them and came to a small clearing of sorts, lit but dimly by fire light. _We must be close to the edge of the forest… or to an edge, I suppose!_ Huddled at the center was Éomer, the Third Marshal looking dazed and in pain, and Aragorn's eyes narrowed at the bleary look that Éomund's son cast up at him. _Concussion, perhaps… or just a bad blow to the head…_ And then his eyes went to the figure that lay at his side.

"Valar!" he fairly spat as he came quickly to kneel across from Éomer. "Has he moved?" _Does he even breathe? Gimli…_

"Nay… nay, Aragorn," Éomer caught his wrist as the Ranger reached to examine the Dwarf, and his second 'nay' was less an answer than a command. Haggard, exhausted blue eyes met his, and Aragorn felt something in him cringe before the certainty in them. For Éomer was a warrior, and he had seen friends and comrades fall to the enemy: he knew death when he looked upon it.

"'Twas an accident… he tried to help me, but struck one of the trees and it…" The younger man closed his eyes, gritting his teeth as if against pain. "He could not have felt much: the impact broke his back in two places. There was naught to be done for him. There is naught you can do for him now," Éomer concluded, opening his eyes once more to gaze pityingly at Aragorn. The Ranger lowered his eyes, feeling the darkness press close about him as his relief evaporated in a heartbeat, to be replaced with grief. "I am sorry beyond words, my friend. If I could have prevented it… if I had had my wits about me… I am sorry!"

A Sindarin curse startled him, but Aragorn could not muster more than a resigned look over his shoulder to see Legolas standing there, apparently having followed him. The hobbits trailed after him, and he saw the dread question in their faces. Desperately, the Ranger wished he could reassure them, but he could say nothing, only stare. Legolas, though, had no need to question, for he knew: it was written in his face and a horror filled those green eyes such as Aragorn had never thought to see.

The Elf came slowly forward, eyes fixed on the body, and he dropped to his knees beside the Dúnadan. Deft fingers reached out to trace the contours of the still face, then withdrew as the prince set his hands precisely upon his thighs and bowed his head. "Legolas," Aragorn murmured softly, aching for the other's loss even as he mourned his own. No response came, and the Ranger gently touched the Elf's shoulder. "Legolas…"

A shiver ran through the other's frame, and with a suddenness that shocked them all, the Elf threw his head back and keened. Of all the races of Arda, no others had voices to match an Elf's, and the Men flinched back from the sound. In after years, it would be remembered, for some friendships are not forgetten though hope fade to ashes. High, yet not shrill, Legolas's lament pierced the night, and the haunting beauty of a prince's grief was the more powerful for the agony that inspired that awful descant. Above the trees it floated, and Men stood still, fearful, wondering; even the few surviving orcs cowered, and the Huorns rocked in concert. All Edoras heard that cry, and the rain fell down like tears.

_And into the Silence, there came a Note. One Note…_


	21. Fisher King

Dawn had come and gone unnoticed, for all Edoras lay under a dark cloud. The rain had continued on and off, and at the moment it came down in a drizzle, but the skies remained threatening whether or not it fell. And although it hindered some activities, the rain had helped to douse the fires, to cleanse the air somewhat of the pervasive scent of ash, and it washed the gore from the streets in scarlet rivulets. Aragorn stood just outside the wreck of the main gates, and lifted his face to the sky, letting the slap of chill water numb his aches and weariness.

It had taken hours to comb through the Entwood in search of lost, frightened men, and although it would take time for Edoras to heal, some of the rubble had had to be cleared for safety's sake. Houses had needed to be checked by sweep patrols to clear out any orcs or Dunlendings that might have taken shelter in them, hoping to be overlooked. Aragorn had overseen some of the teams, and had had the misfortune to discover a few such rat's nests. In the mean time, a pair of scouts had been sent north towards Helm's Deep to see whether there lay any unfought forces still between the two strongholds, and to alert them in the event that there were. And if there were none, then Elfhelm and Erkenbrand—assuming that they lived still—would accompany the messengers home. The people of Edoras would remain within the inner keep until tomorrow, which meant that despite the lifting of the siege, quarters would still be quite cramped. And then there was the burial work that had to be done...

The Ranger grimaced, and ran a hand over his face as he lowered his eyes once more. His few hours of sleep the night before last were not sufficient to the need of today, and he knew that he ought to take the time granted him and rest. Yet he could not quite bring himself to return yet to the crowded keep, even knowing that he at least had a bed to sleep in, unlike so many others. _Burial work!_ He had done his share of that as well—not because he was needed, but because he needed to lay his grief to rest along with Gimli. _That, and Legolas has done enough today without straining himself further._ Éomer had wanted to help, but he had been called to the inner keep by Théoden on some urgent errand.

Thus it had been a small party of mourners about the Dwarf's grave when at length it had come time to lay him in it and cast the earth's shroud over him. The hobbits, in an unusual show of conscientiousness, had gone to the trouble of gathering piles of broken cobblestones from the main road to lay over the turned soil. "I don't suppose we could raise anything like what we saw in Moria," Merry had murmured, and looked anxiously up at Aragorn. "Do you think this will do, Strider?"

"'Tis a fitting gesture," the Ranger had replied. "I think he would approve." The hobbits had seemed somewhat relieved by that assurance, but Legolas had scarcely twitched, staring with unseeing eyes at the stone-covered patch of ground. The Elf had knelt and placed his hands firmly upon the grass near the head of the grave, and Aragorn had thought he understood the prince's intentions. But no sound had issued from Legolas's lips, and eventually, he had bowed his head, shoulders shaking silently. Slender hands clenched into fists, twisting the blades of grass in agony, and then, abruptly, the Elf had stood. If he had wept, the rain hid it, but the dullness of his eyes—lifted for a time by the company of friends, new and old—had returned. Without a word, he had simply walked away, back up into the city, breaking into a run after a bit and disappearing quickly into the darkness.

That had upset the hobbits, but no one had a mind to run after an Elf who clearly wished to be alone. As there had been (and continued to be) much else to be done, the trio had reluctantly gone their separate ways. The hobbits were bent upon doing what they could in the aftermath of the battle, and had joined the search for lost soldiers in the Entwood.

"Bregalad knows us, as do the others. So long as we are careful, we shall come to no harm, and at least we know something of adventures with trees," Pippin had declared determinedly. Aragorn had nodded at the time, taking them at their word, and then gone to help clear out orcs from their hiding places. All the while, though, his mind had been elsewhere, and that had nearly proved his undoing when an orcish crossbow bolt had come within inches of his face. After that, he had kept his thoughts reined in tightly lest they betray him. His duty done this past half hour, however, he had naught pressing to do save contemplate the unsavory tale that had come down from the keep.

And while he brooded on the latest intimations of disaster, he stared at the barrow. His own contribution to Gimli's grave stood a little to one side of where Legolas had laid his hands, and he supposed he ought to ask pardon for the "borrowing." But to rebuild Edoras would require many a stonemason and hard work at the quarries, and so he thought no one would miss a single, somewhat worn, white stone. Gimli might never have been a Ranger, but no Ranger could fail to sympathize with those who fell far from the sight of their homes, defending a people not their own.

"Strider?" A hesitant voice broke through his thoughts, and Aragorn blinked, then turned to see Pippin standing there, looking cold and miserable, and thoroughly upset.

"What is it, Pippin?"

"It's Legolas." A chill pierced him at those words, and it must have shown, for the hobbit hastened to add, "Merry's with him now. Well, he's just a little ways away, but he's watching him. We tried to talk to him, Merry and I, but he won't answer, except to tell us to leave him alone. I thought... maybe you'd have better luck."

_I doubt it!_ Aragorn thought privately, but sighed. "Where is he?"

"Up on the tower in the inner keep."

"How did you find him?"

"Bregalad has long eyes, and he says Elves always seek the heights when they cannot seek the seas, whatever that means," Pippin said, and shrugged nervously.

"I see. How did you find me?" Aragorn asked, delaying the inevitable. This time, Pippin only shrugged, blushing a bit.

"I just thought you might come back here. It's what I was going to do until Merry said we ought to look for Legolas."

"Stay then, if you wish. I can send Merry to you."

"No, I'll go with you. I, um, I don't think I want to be alone right now," Pippin replied, casting a rather more serious look than was his wont up at the Ranger.

"Come then," Aragorn replied, and offered a rather tired smile as he added, "In truth, neither do I!" That seemed to hearten the other somewhat, and the two of them set off. For once, Aragorn was grateful for the short legs of hobbits, which hold Men to a much slower pace than usual, for he was weary and desired time to think how he would approach a grieving, wounded Elf. It was rare that the Eldar died of grief, although the few who had were quite notorious for having done so, and certainly, he had never heard of any Elf dying for the sake of a Dwarf.

On the other hand, the sheer novelty of such a relationship put him quite far out of his depth. _As if I were not already!_ Through the rain-slick, rubble-strewn streets they went, heading for the inner keep. Despite the rain, people huddled in knots here and there all about the courtyard before Meduseld, and Pippin led him left, to the eastern tower. Up the winding way they went, until at last they came upon Merry, who was sitting huddled on the steps beneath the trap door.

"He's still up there," Merry said in a low, worried voice. "Can you get him to come down?"

"I know not. But at the least, I think you two need not remain here. Take what rest you can and get out of the cold," Aragorn advised, considering the ladder and the rain that fell down through the open door.

"Are you certain?"

"Aye. Go ahead." The hobbits glanced at each other, then Merry rose and he and Pippin began making their way down in silence. As they did so, Aragorn grasped the rungs and climbed swiftly out onto the platform, stifling a curse when a sudden gust of wind blew stinging rain into his eyes. Straightening, he glanced about and quickly spotted Legolas sitting atop a merlon, facing out towards the remains of the gates. Although not particularly afraid of heights, the Ranger felt a certain instinctive dread grip him, and the urge to grab the Elf and drag him back from the edge was nearly overwhelming. "Legolas?" he asked softly, making no effort to hide the concern in his voice.

"You as well?" the prince asked in a low voice.

"Pippin and Merry are worried about you," Aragorn replied.

"Whereas you are not?" The sharp, almost sneering tone was quite unlike Legolas, but Isildur's Heir refused to flinch.

"Nay, Legolas. I do not worry, I fear for you!"

"You should fear more for yourself! You shall catch your death of cold, Aragorn, if you remain. Go below!" the answer came back tautly.

"I think I can be no wetter than I am already," the Ranger replied, moving slowly forward to stand just behind and below the Elf. And since he was soaked to the skin, he did not hesitate to sit in the water puddling in the crenel so he could catch a glimpse of Legolas' expression. Strands of long, dark-gold hair hung wetly in his face, and the Elf's breath steamed in the cold air. "Legolas... you knew that this might happen."

"Must you remind me of my folly?" the prince cried, his green eyes flashing as he turned them on the Ranger, and Aragorn cursed inwardly. He had not intended to lay blame at anyone's doorstep with that statement. _Although if we must seek to blame someone, I deserve it more than any other. I should never have agreed to let him stay, knowing he was not truly battle-fit. But Gimli had chosen already..._

"I mean only that when you chose to accompany the Ringbearer, you knew that you traveled with mortal companions. Even Gandalf was quite vulnerable to death, as you knew well after Moria," he replied, carefully keeping his voice level. "Each of us knew the risk when he accepted this task, Gimli no less than you."

"Did we?" Legolas asked softly, still staring at Aragorn. "Did we indeed know the risk?"

"What mean you?"

"I have come to realize something since I came to this place," the Prince of Mirkwood replied. "It crept upon me slowly, but now I see it clearly! The veil of Darkness has not lifted with Saruman's defeat, Aragorn. I thought it my own, or a wizard's meddling, but now I know the truth: it is pervasive, insidious, and it is everywhere! Valar, it sits so heavy on you that I am only shocked by my blindness!" That last was delivered with such bitterness that the Ranger caught his breath sharply. Legolas noticed and gave a soft, almost contemptuous laugh. "Do not deny it, Aragorn! You are too weary to dissemble before an Elf, so kindly do not insult me with the attempt! The Darkness _is_ , and the Song... the Song is grown fractured and distorted... Silent in places..." The prince cocked his head, his eyes growing distant as he seemed to listen for some elusive melody. "Yes... so very silent, and yet we did not see, we who ought to have seen. We would not see—the last vanity of my kind, and it shall cost us dear!" He shook his head sharply, then lanced Aragorn with a stare. "And you knew. You have known for all the long way from Moria, and in Lothlórien, where you acted so oddly to my eyes!"

"Legolas—"

"You might have told me!"

"What would you have had me say?" Aragorn demanded quietly. "When Gandalf fell into the chasm, I knew and I despaired. Yet it seemed that you had been spared that bitter knowledge. Why would I have said aught, knowing the risk should the Ringbearer come to share my hopelessness?"

"Frodo left us days ago. You might have told me then!"

"Why? You were injured and struggling as it was, and Gimli did not know, yet he never ceased to fear for you. You had concerns enough between the two of you."

"And later? What of today?"

"Legolas," Aragorn paused, groping for words, for an even tone of voice despite his frustration and the wholly irrational anger that wanted to strike back in his own defense before the other's scathing tone. Finally, he drew a breath and his eyes narrowed as he stared up at the Elf. "Once, when first we met, you said to me, that it must be a gift to come to learn of sorrow, rather than to be born to it. Do you recall that?" The elven prince's lips tightened, but he nodded. "And I told you that like many gifts, it has its dangers. What think you of this gift now? And would you truly have wished to receive it earlier? It would not have saved Gimli. You know that. No amount of knowledge can save one from what simply befalls." The bitter truth, that, and Legolas, after staring for several moments longer, finally lowered his head.

After a long silence, the Elf said softly, "Please leave, Aragorn! Ere I say aught else unworthy."

"If I leave, have I your promise that you will come and sleep soon? Or at the least, that come midday, you shall come down and find me?"

A sigh greeted this request, and then: "I have never desired to grieve to death. Even now, I do not wish it."

"Then I shall leave you to your thoughts. May they prove... enlightening." That was the best he could manage, but at least he could trust an Elf to catch the double-meaning of that last word. Having spoken his piece, Aragorn turned and made his way down the ladder. And although it was a futile effort, he paused just to one side of the trap door's opening and wrung water out of his hair, his sleeves, his cloak, his tabard. He even stripped his gloves off and wrung them out, and as he watched the water sluice off of him and his clothes, he tried to let the pain drain away with it. _Well that I did not tell him that Frodo knew ere he did! Steadily, son of Arathorn, keep your wits about you!_ Drawing a deep breath, he pulled his gauntlets back on and went swiftly down the stairs, determined to drown his troubles in oblivion for a few hours.

As he stepped out of the tower and back into the rain again, however, he espied Éomer. The Third Marshal was gesturing emphatically in the constrained space between himself and his interlocutor, but it was clear from the force of his movements and his taut, mask-like expression, that he was deeply troubled. The other Rider, whom Aragorn could see only from the back, seemed a younger man—an esquire, perhaps? But no esquire would argue back in quite the way that this one seemed to, although the two kept their words between them. And as the Ranger paused just beyond the threshold of the entryway, Éomer saw him and seemed to halt mid-sentence.

The other Rider turned to glance over his shoulder— _Over her shoulder!_ Aragorn realized with a weary sort of shock. _I knew not that Rohan had trained any shieldmaidens in this generation! Or is that true?_ A moment, they stared at each other while his tired mind tried to tease out half-remembered words, and then the woman raised a hand and beckoned to him to join them. Éomer's jaw clenched, but the Third Marshal drew a deep breath and seemed to rein in his temper as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Éomer... my lady," Aragorn murmured, as he approached, feeling rather more awkward than he might wish.

"You are Lord Ælric, are you not?" the woman asked rather coolly.

"I am. I fear you have the advantage of me, Lady...?"

"Aragorn, this is my sister, Éowyn," Éomer spoke just as realization struck him. Ranger and Shieldmaiden eyed each other, seeming to test expectations against reality. _She looks like her brother... and they both have Éomund's eyes._ And had not Éomer said earlier his sister was a shieldmaiden? _And that Gríma had bought her honor and her shield with a threat to her brother's life?_ he recalled grimly. It seemed, though, that the lady did not accept Gríma's interpretation of the law...

"I am honored to meet you, my lady," Aragorn said at length. "A pity we met not sooner."

"Please, my lord, let us not speak of that," Éowyn replied fiercely, and the Ranger did not miss the slight quaver in her voice.

"As you wish. How else may I serve, then?" he asked instead.

"You are the one that Legolas spoke of—his companion, yes?" At his wordless nod, she continued, "Then mayhap you can tell me how he fares, my lord. I know that he was greatly grieved over the loss of the Dwarf, Gimli."

"He is an Elf, my lady, and I fear that Elves take very ill such losses," Aragorn responded, careful of his words, for he would not reveal overmuch, uncertain of how things stood between Legolas and the lady Éowyn.

"I would speak with him—to thank him for his aid. And mayhap he would find some comfort from my presence."

"That is kind of you, but I believe that he wishes now for solitude. I have lately come from the tower where he sits, and he asked me to leave him," the Ranger cautioned.

"Then we ought to do well together, for I think we both know what it means to stand alone among others! And though I cannot undo the past, mayhap I shall not fail the future in this small thing." At this, she turned back to Éomer and said, "Excuse me, brother." Ere the Third Marshal could protest, she nodded to Aragorn. "My lord." And then she was gone, striding quickly away and disappearing up into the tower. Aragorn stared after her, considering and swiftly rejecting the notion of trying to stop her. Legolas would do as he saw fit, and he suspected that the Lady of Rohan might take harsh honesty less ill than many women. Which freed him to recall his ponderings before Gimli's grave and, without turning, he asked:

"What was that about?"

"Naught," Éomer replied, sounding tense and angry still, though weariness robbed him of his usual force. Or perhaps it was lack of conviction, for Aragorn turned to spear the other with a probing regard, seeking the truth of this morning's news.

"I should think that she would be relieved, given the word from Meduseld," he replied softly, watching Éomer closely.

"You sound as if you disapprove of such a notion, Aragorn," the Third Marshal replied in a rather clipped, forced tone.

"I do not deny that I would rather him dead than alive, but Gríma was a prisoner. Only yesterday, it could have been you with a split breastbone, Éomer!"

A shrug. "What of that?" And Aragorn, hearing that, raised skeptical brows, his own tone sharpening in response to the other's cold voice.

"Are you thinking, Éomer? In war or a the king's hall, there is a certain fairness to it. But an unarmed man in a cell against an assailant armed with a sword? Or so I hear it, for to break bone with a dagger takes great strength. Who but one wronged would kill in such a manner? And where were you ere the battle began? Were you not at Meduseld?"

"Do not tell me that you pity Wormtongue!" Éomer shot back, his eyes bright with amazed anger and a hint of contempt. When Aragorn said naught, only gazed unhappily at him, he snorted and glanced away. "Ask any man in this keep—'twas no murder that happened. Gríma was an animal," he ground out disgustedly, staring up at the tower. "Whoever killed him, I commend him."

"Do you indeed?" the Ranger asked softly.

"'Twas but justice. We should have died today," Éomer replied, lowering his gaze to stare at Aragorn with haunted eyes that still smoldered with passion. "And if we had, what then? Would you have wished him to escape his sentence? What matter that it was never formally dealt out? He who slew the Worm of Edoras did but our duty for us, and unforeseen victory does not change that."

For his part, the Ranger listened to the other's tone, to the anger that vibrated in it and the fear, the defiance, and all of it overlaid with exhaustion that hoarsened his voice and lent a desperate edge to it. And although Éomer seemed quite convinced of the rectitude of Gríma's end, something nagged gently at the back of Aragorn's mind, seeking admission to conscious thought. Clearly, Éomer was hiding the truth, yet not that which might seem most obvious. _I do not wish to ask him bluntly. There are other questions that might reveal much..._

For a long while, he said nothing, debating with himself, but in the end, he simply sighed. "We are both weary and shall come to no satisfactory conclusion of this argument in our present moods. I think that you, especially, need to rest, Éomer. You were fortunate to survive the final onslaught," Aragorn replied, stepping back from the matter at hand to less controversial concerns.

"I am well enough," Éomer muttered, although he had the grace to look away with that lie, and the Ranger quirked a dark brow skeptically. The Third Marshal had an interesting bruise on his left cheek, and the only reason it had not swollen was the gash that drained away some of the blood. The right side of his face had a number of paper thin, shallow cuts and some scratches. Blood had stained his green tabard nearly black, and his hair was encrusted with it. Soot and mud clung to him up to his knees, and the grim reality of it was that this was an improvement over his earlier appearance, for the rain had drenched him just as thoroughly as it had Aragorn. Of greater concern to his healer's mind was the suspicion that Éomer had sustained other, more serious injuries, for he remembered the bewildered, dazed and pained look he had turned on him beneath the trees of the Entwood.

"You ought to seek a surgeon," he responded quietly. And perhaps it was his deadly serious tone, but Éomer blinked and glanced up, searching his face a moment ere he answered heavily:

"Nay, you are right to say that what I need is sleep!" he admitted, pressing thumb and forefinger against his eyes. "I shall take my leave, if you do not mind, and seek my bed in the guest house."

"Can you manage the walk, let alone the stairs?" And when Éomer neither answered nor moved, Aragorn sighed softly. Catching the younger man firmly by the arm, he began towing the unresisting Third Marshal along with him, steadying him as they crossed the sloping courtyard. It was likely fortunate that most people were already crowded into Meduseld's many halls, into storehouses, inns, or any other room that could be made to serve, not excepting the cramped, cold hallways within the keep's defensive wall. Else, they would have had to struggle against the human tide, and Aragorn doubted Éomer would have managed the feat with any grace. Wulf the inkeep glanced up as they entered the guesthouse, offering a brief bow. "Top of the stairs, my lords, and the first door on your left. You are with the Elf."

"Thank you," Aragorn murmured, as the two began their ascent. The stairs proved rather difficult when Éomer slipped and nearly dragged the Dúnadan down with him, as the steps were quite wet and slick from the many drenched guests who had traversed them. Wulf, hearing Éomer's low curse, glanced up concernedly at them, but Aragorn motioned him to go on about his tasks as he steadied the Third Marshal and continued climbing. The door on the left at the top of the stairs was unlocked, and the two of them gratefully entered and shut it behind them. It was dark within, for the shutters were closed, but the fire had been laid, illuminating dimly two cots and all of their gear piled together in a corner. After only a slight hesitation, the Ranger guided Éomer to the bench at the end of the bed. Legolas could sleep at will in almost any surrounding, after all. "Sit down and let me look at you."

"'Tis only a cut—"

"And that I can cure, but there are other reasons for my concern," Aragorn replied, digging through the pile of saddlebags until he found the one he wanted. Drawing out a clean cloth and his satchel, he returned to where Éomer still stood, as if unwilling to sit down lest he never rise again. "Sit!" Setting his supplies on the floor at his feet, he laid a heavy hand on the younger man's shoulder and pressed him down onto the edge of the bench. Reaching into his belt pouch, he found his tinderbox and caught Éomer's chin firmly as he struck the pad. Light flared, and the Third Marshal blinked. "Look at me!"

Obediently, Éomer did so, and Aragorn sighed with soft relief as the other's pupils contracted readily enough. Releasing his chin, the Ranger felt at the back of the other's head, finding a painful knot, and upon closer inspection, there was some bruising and swelling just along Éomer's hairline. Pulling off one of his gauntlets, he laid two fingertips over the pulse point in the other's throat, counting silently. At last, and with a grunt, Isildur's Heir straightened and went to light the candle on the stand by the head of the bed, bringing it back to set beside Éomer. "If you will not seek a surgeon's aid, I fear you shall have to make do with mine," he said, quelling any protests with a look as he wet a cloth and quickly washed his hands off. "You may have a mild concussion, but if so, you are in no danger from it. You do need to rest though. How do you feel, other than dizzy?"

"How ought I to feel? I was buried under orcs and then..." Éomer paused, eyes growing quite distant as he frowned, trying to recall. "I do not know what happened. I could not breathe, nor move... and suddenly there was noise and I was flung aside..." He hissed as Aragorn, using water from one of the bottles in his satchel, began cleaning the cut on his cheek. "I opened my eyes and I could see naught. I... thought I might have been blinded!" That last came out hesitantly, with a certain chagrin, as if he were ashamed to admit such fear.

"From what I have heard from others who were lost in the woods, many thought the same when first they fell under the shadow of the trees," the Ranger replied matter-of-factly, knowing that Éomer would not appreciate overmuch sympathy. The Third Marshal needed steadiness at the moment, not emotion. "When first I entered the Entwood, I felt as if all the world had faded behind me, and for a time I could do naught but stand and wait for the disorientation to ease." Having cleaned the wound as thoroughly as he could, he reached unerringly for the salve that he had used earlier on Legolas and gently applied it. Once the area was numbed, he would not fear to strain the other's self-control with stitches.

"The world is grown mad, it seems," Éomer replied, shaking his head, and then wincing. "Trees in the middle of Edoras, _holbytla_ and Elves... and Isildur's Heir bears the horn of the stewards of Gondor."

"Hold still," Aragorn instructed, catching Éomer's face once more to keep him from moving as he began stitching the cut closed. "Mad it may seem, but it is our place to make sense of it. Doubtless, however, we shall both have more success in that endeavor once we have slept for a time."

"There are days when I feel as though Éowyn and I have been awake all of our lives," Éomer murmured, closing his eyes a moment. "She had the worst of it in the end, though. And I... I was always too late for her!" A pause. "Know you whereof I speak, Aragorn?"

The Dúnadan grimaced slightly, pausing a moment to meet the other's questioning gaze with dark eyes. "Aye, I do," said he quietly, thinking of his days of dreaming in Imladris... and remembering the more than sixty years of wakefulness that had descended suddenly upon a young man. Shaking himself quickly out of those memories, he blinked and bent again to the delicate task of mending the other's hurts. _Alas that I can do little for the ones he bears inside! As little as I can do for Legolas, perhaps._ Thought of Legolas, though, brought the Elf's accusing, horrified words starkly to mind: _Valar, it sits so heavy on you that I am only shocked by my blindness!_ He supposed that he ought not to be surprised, but somehow, the prince's words had struck like a revelation, and he wondered whether this was a new darkness, or one that he had borne for long.

_And if the latter, then how badly have I hurt Arwen?_ A part of his mind scoffed at such concerns, deeming them overlate in coming to him, for surely he had done quite enough to hurt her in loving her. _Kiss the shadow, my dear! Kiss me and try not to notice what a twisted creature you touch!_ The notion disgusted him, and he gritted his teeth against the surge of self-loathing. He finished his task, cut the excess thread and glanced up to find Éomer watching him with narrowed eyes.

"What is it, Aragorn?" the younger man asked, and from his tone, it was clear enough that he would not accept silence or a casual dismissal.

"You were always too late for her, you say," he replied after a long moment's consideration, and watched as Éomer nodded slowly. "Better too late than disfigure her soul yourself. I can help you with the armor so that you do not break the stitches accidentally." And although a number of questions rose obviously in the Third Marshal's mind, he wisely asked none of them, only began, with Aragorn's help, to rid himself of the layers of metal and leather. The coif and the mail were the most troublesome, but they managed, and Éomer carefully stripped out of his sodden jerkin and tunic, while Aragorn tried not to grimace at the bruises this exposed.

Éomer climbed wearily to his feet and went in search of towels in the washroom, leaving Aragorn to his own devices. There comes a point when it hurts more to remove armor than to wear it, and he hissed slightly as he felt blood flow a bit more freely to numbed extremities. But by the time Éomer returned, he had rid himself of most of his layers and had spread their garments on the hearth and mantel to dry. The Third Marshal had taken advantage of the ewers of water to wash out his gore-smeared hair, and he tossed Aragorn the spare towel.

"There is still water there, if you wish it," he added, going to the piled saddle bags and searching through them 'til he found a clean pair of trousers. "It may not be warm, but 'tis less cold than the rain at least!" he added.

"My thanks," Aragorn replied, and went to investigate, for truthfully he would feel the better for scrubbing some of the filth out of his hair. Several empty pitchers stood on the floor, but there remained quite a few for others to use as well. Leaning over the basin, he poured the contents of one of them over his head and grimaced as the water ran redly into the receptacle despite the drenching he had received from the rain. Soap helped, but it needed another pitcher before the water that dripped from his hair ran clear. A third ewer was allotted to an economic bath, and then he quickly toweled himself dry.

As he did so, he noticed the small mirror hanging just over the wash basin, and wondered that he had not remarked it earlier. Perhaps it was simply that years spent in the wilds of Eriador, in the company of Rangers, had left him without the habit of mirror-gazing. One learned to shave and cut one's hair by feel or by a stream's wavering reflection, and one expected more or less to seem disreputable to the settled peoples of the world. Yet this time, he did stare, and tried to remember the last time he had looked in a mirror. _Imladris, I think it was. I cannot remember how long it had been before that._ There were a few more lines about his eyes, he thought, and he needed either to shave the beard entirely or else trim it. A few more strands of silver had worked their way into his hair, just there at his temples.

Other than that, there was little to mark the passing years, for Númenorean blood aged slowly. Nevertheless, if the mirror did not show the wounds within, he felt them still, and he wondered whether only Legolas saw them. _I can read others at a glance, but myself...?_ Perhaps because it was himself, and he had no experience of what grief actually looked like on him, or perhaps because he was too accustomed to fool others who might seek answers to their questions in his face, he could not tell whether or not he had any secrets simply from looking into the glass.

_Enough of this!_ Aragorn admonished himself and turned away, retreating to the main room. Éomer glanced up from his place by the fire, distracted apparently by his movement. He had changed and laid his clothes, mail included, near the hearth, and had ended by staring into the flames. The Ranger gave a soft snort and raised a brow. "Unless you are an Elf, you cannot sleep standing up, nor with your eyes open." For some reason, the Third Marshal shivered at those words, and folded his arms across his chest against gooseflesh.

"Let us not speak of the strange ways of Elves!" he replied, watching as Aragorn in his turn went hunting for clean clothing. He had one shirt left him at this point, but laundry would have to wait 'til the morrow. "And may I say that you look little better than I at this point, Aragorn!"

"I would amend my appearance with a few hours' rest if you would sleep yourself, my friend," the Ranger replied. And since water could hardly hurt anything, he simply piled his dirty clothing atop the bench at the foot of the bed, heedless of the puddle Éomer had left there, before pulling the clean shirt on. "Take the bed, Éomer, Legolas and I will be quite satisfied with the cots."

"I need not to be coddled—"

"And I do not coddle you, I look to the bruises and think of this afternoon," Aragorn replied, blowing out the candle beside him ere he gathered his laundry up and met the other's eyes. After a long moment's look, he stalked to the hearth once more, added his shirt and trousers to the many bits of clothing already there and set his boots down by Éomer's. There came a soft chuckle from behind him, and then the sound of sheets being turned down. The mattress creaked a bit as Éomer lay down.

"You and Éowyn would do well together, clearly!" came the half-serious complaint.

Aragorn grunted at that, then moved to claim one of the cots, gratefully curling up under the blankets. Yet as he lay there in the fire-lit darkness, he could not yet sleep for the question that nagged at him. The question he had not asked earlier. _Can it not wait? Surely 'tis not so urgent that I know..._ After struggling against it for a short while, he uttered a soft curse and asked, "Éomer?"

"Mmmph?" came the sleepy response.

"Does Théoden know the truth of what happened in that cell?"

There followed a long pause, and then, "What mean you by that?"

"Do not play this game with me now! Does he know that it was not you who killed Wormtongue?" Another silence greeted his words. _If he did it, he will own it, of that I am certain..._

"Why should he suspect another? What other man would spit him on a sword?" Éomer asked at length. This time, it was Aragorn who was silent a long while, and the tension from Éomer's corner grew worse. Finally:

"I see," Isildur's Heir said heavily. However much he disliked the answer, Éomer plainly was not about to give him any other, though from the other's continued silence, the Third Marshal could not be unaware that Aragorn did not believe him.

"Rest you well, Aragorn," Éomer murmured just then, closing the subject.

"Thank you." A pause. "I hope that nothing ill comes of this!" There came the sound of the other turning over and burrowing deeper under the blankets, and then all was still. For his part, Aragorn pulled the covers tightly about him and closed his eyes. Within moments, he was asleep.

But Éomer, lying quietly with his back to the fire, sighed. He had skirted the truth as carefully as he knew how, yet it had not been enough to fool the other, and he silently cursed Gríma. _Even in death, you make trouble for us all!_ he thought bitterly. _Aragorn suspects, that is clear._ For that matter, he was nearly certain that Théoden had guessed as well, and he sighed inaudibly. _That makes it a conspiracy, unless Aragorn rips the mask off. But I think he shall not._ Almost, he wished the Ranger would expose them, but it seemed all courses of action ran ill, creating unwelcome and insupportable situations. And in fact, Aragorn's very unwillingness to come forth and demand an inquiry struck Éomer as ominous in some way.

"Nothing ill, you hope? 'Tis too late for that, my friend!" he muttered, yawning around the last words. But whatever troubles pricked his uneasy conscience, at the moment, he was exhausted. The mattress was soft, and warmth stole insidiously through his body, quieting his fears.

When Legolas at last joined them, creeping in with an Elf's stealth, both Men were soundly asleep.

* * *

Thanks to Gabrielle for refusing to let me get away with the crappy transition.


	22. They Also Serve Who Stand and Wait

 Edoras was bustling with activity by mid-afternoon. Although the sky remained cloud-streaked, the rain had ceased, and repair work had begun in earnest: warriors and common folk lent their hands—and backs, and shoulders, and knees—to clear the streets of the wreckage. The city's draft horses and ponies were put to good use hauling bricks and stone, and every so often, one would even see a war horse helping to pull timber from the still-smoldering ruin. The grim task of burying the dead continued, and the blockades and choke points that had been set up earlier were being dismantled, mostly by the women of Edoras. Merry frowned as he stared through the swirling mass of Rohirrim, unable, unless he lifted his eyes, to see much more than a blur of legs, and he wondered how many of them there were.

"How shall we cross without being trampled?" Pippin asked, voicing the question on both of their minds. At about noon, the pair had gone to pay a final visit to Bregalad, who had earlier told them that he and the Huorns would likely leave that afternoon. By then, the Entwood had already moved beyond the ruined gates to stand guard near Gimli's grave, for the Rohirrim could do little with the trees still in the middle of Edoras. Fearful of them, they would not dare the eaves, nor lead any horse through the wood.

"And perhaps they are right to stay away, for we have had too many accidents!" Bregalad had said mournfully. Most of the Rohirrim who had fallen or been thrown beneath the shadow of the trees had emerged more or less unscathed, but Gimli had not been the only ally to fall to the Huorns: some thirty Riders had been found dead of wounds that no orc could have inflicted. Neither Théoden King nor Aragorn, nor even Legolas had believed that such deaths were anything but accidental—the results of fatal panic or unintentional provocation—but most of the Rohirrim knew only that the forest was perilous and they refused to go near it. "Well, my hobbits," the Ent had said as he prepared to leave, "I shall miss you. And I wish you good fortune in the wide world, though the very earth groans with the hatred of war."

"Safe journey, Quickbeam," they had answered. "And thank you for your kindness!"

"I shall bear your greetings to the Eldest. Assure the king that the Ents shall take good care of the wizard. Fare you well!" And the Ent had lifted his hands to cup his mouth, and a great, resonant _hrooom!_ had issued forth, halting all work as the Rohirrim looked up. And as all watched in amazement, leaves and branches had quivered, as if beneath a strong breeze, and then tremors had run up the trunks as the tree roots pulled themselves from the soil. A great, groaning sound had filled the air, and then the entire forest had begun to move almost as one, following Bregalad. Other Ents had appeared from the forest eaves and ranged themselves all about the trees as they called what was presumably encouragement. _Or else directions. They're like great sheepdogs!_ Merry had thought. Very swift they were, and it had not been not long ere the entish herd had disappeared, leaving only a path of turned soil in its wake. For some time after that, the two hobbits had sat upon the ground beside Gimli's grave, and an oddly silent pair they had been. None had disturbed them, and save for the arrival of a pair of riders out of the north-west, who seemed to cause quite a stir among the Rohirrim, work continued uninterrupted, forming an oddly lulling backdrop to the hobbits' silent thoughts. But as noon had passed and the sun had sunk steadily westward, they had risen, intending to return to the guesthouse and find their friends.

Now, though, as they stood just below the square where Aragorn and Éomer had made their final stand, they were at a loss. For not only had they the work parties—which seemed to include every able-bodied inhabitant of the city who was not already on guard duty—to contend with, but it seemed that the guard detail was changing shifts. "We could try the back ways," Merry suggested, and glanced sharply at his cousin when Pippin snorted.

"After the Old Forest, I'm not sure I trust your short cuts, Merry," the other replied. "Besides, they haven't finished tearing down all the barricades that Strider and what's his name— the marshal— put up!"

"True enough. But do you really want to wait for all that to clear?" Merry swept an arm to encompass the crowd, then jumped back as a Rohirrim—a child, by the looks of him, though already he was a good foot taller than either of the hobbits— swerved aside suddenly, guiding a laden, dark-spotted pony on a short lead rein.

" _Cum, Blæcig!_ " the lad shouted over his shoulder, encouraging the beast, and apparently oblivious to the hobbits' existence. Further up the road, more calls could be heard, and as the hobbits stared, vainly seeking to discover the cause of the commotion, a gap opened in the crowd. Merry and Pippin cast a quick glance at each other, but did not hesitate. Darting forward, they dodged Rohirrim as they sought to take advantage of the momentary clearing.

" _Ha! Git ætstande!_ " Someone snatched at them, but lost his grip, and the hobbits' momentum had them flying forward into the middle of the street in spite of themselves. " _Reccelaesan bearn!_ "

"Reckless... what?" Merry glanced about... and then cried out in alarm, shoving Pippin forward as he put on a burst of speed. The cart driver cursed as he passed, but held his course, calling out sharply to the horse. Almost instantly, the Rohirrim filled the street in his wake, though those nearest the hobbits paused to inspect them, and Merry's ears rang with their voices. "Pip?"

"I'm all right... um... thank you...?" Pippin offered in response to the flurry of Rohirric, staring uncertainly up at the concerned, and sometimes glowering, faces of those who crowded about him. Some of the Rohirrim were eyeing the pair skeptically, as if uncertain what to make of them; others were chattering at them in what seemed soothing tones.

" _Styrath!_ " At the sound of that voice, the knot of people shifted quite abruptly, and Merry and Pippin looked up. A tall woman stood there, gazing down at them expressionlessly, and from her clothing, which seemed very fine despite its being trousers and a tunic, made her a noblewoman, surely. " _Hwæs bearn sind éow?_ " she asked, kneeling down on one knee, the better to look them in the face.

"Whose... ? I beg your pardon, milady, but did you ask whose we were?" Merry asked, being careful to speak very slowly and distinctly. The woman blinked, and her brow furrowed thoughtfully as she looked them up and down, eyes narrowing slightly. Merry chewed the inside of his lip gently, wondering if she had understood a word. It seemed that between them, the hobbits and Rohirrim understood enough of each other's speech to know that they missed much in conversation. But usually, if the hobbits spoke slowly enough, someone would understand, though it seemed not to work half as well the other way around.

"I did," she answered after a beat, and although her Common was pleasantly accented, it came quite easily to her as she spoke. "But it seems that the question was ill-put. You are not children, surely, if you do not speak Rohirric. _Gá heonon, god folc._ " She raised her voice slightly, and the others dispersed. When they were more or less alone, given the crowded conditions of the square, she continued, "If you be not children, then what are you, if I may ask?"

"Hobbits, my lady. We came with the Ents," Pippin replied, and then paused, gazing with great interest at her pale, shapely face and golden hair. "You speak very well, if you don't mind my saying so."

"Pippin!" Merry hissed, appalled. But the woman only smiled slightly at that, seeming unoffended.

"Thank you. And for one who speaks not my tongue, you understood well enough my meaning, Master Hobbit," she replied, shifting her attention back to Merry. "How are you called?"

"Meriadoc Brandybuck, my lady. Or Merry, if you like. And this is Peregrin Took, my cousin," Merry answered.

"And I am Éowyn, Éomund's daughter," she replied. "So you came with the Ents, yet now that they are gone, you remain. Why?"

"Well, we found our friends here, so there is little reason to stay."

"Ah. Then you are the friends that Prince Legolas spoke of, I guess," Éowyn said, her tone sharpening with interest.

"You know him?" Pippin asked hopefully.

"Aye, a little. Come you with me, and we shall away to find him, then," Éowyn declared, rising. "Stay close! It is quite a crush." So saying, she strode into the crowd, and the hobbits hastened to keep up with her long stride. Fortunately, despite the close quarters, the Rohirrim seemed miraculously to melt away before her, leaving the three of them a clear path. Merry could not quite understand the polite-sounding murmurs that floated after her, but he guessed that Éowyn must be a high lady, indeed, to merit such deference. He and Pippin did their best to ignore the many curious stares turned upon them, trying not to embarrass their guide, though Merry felt his cheeks heat in response to the attention. At length, they came to the inner keep, and Éowyn was admitted with scarcely a second glance. The courtyard beyond was quieter, though certainly not empty, and the hobbits relaxed somewhat.

"Where are you taking us, Lady Éowyn?" Merry asked.

"To Meduseld, the king's high hall, where you shall find Prince Legolas, among others. My brother is there, and my uncle. And Lord Aragorn, whom you must also know, if you are friends with the prince," she replied, glancing down at him for confirmation.

"Aye, we do," Merry replied, wondering at her matter-of-fact response. _Surely not just anyone walks into a king's hall!_ "Is your uncle a counselor?" he asked after a moment.

"Nay, nay, he is no counselor," Éowyn laughed, but her tone hardened slightly as she continued. "My uncle is Théoden King."

"The king?" Pippin blurted out, staring wide-eyed up at her. "But then... what were you doing down there?"

"Pip!" Merry nearly groaned, although in truth, he had been wondering the same thing. Fortunately, Éowyn seemed made of sterner stuff than the princesses in the tales his mother had read to him when he had been a boy.

"I went to escort Gríma from the city," she replied, and Merry frowned at the queer note of grim satisfaction in her voice. "And it seems it was well that I did, else we might not have met."

"But you were alone," Merry protested.

"Master Wormtongue rode in the cart that nearly crushed you," she informed them dryly.

"Oh." A pause. "But I saw no one but the driver. Although, I suppose I hadn't the chance to look closely... wait a moment!" Merry frowned again, and more deeply, thinking over his blurred impressions of that harrowing crossing.

"The dead are accustomed to lie in a box, Master Brandybuck. Doubtless that is why you missed him. Do not concern yourself overmuch," Éowyn replied, and now there was no mistaking the steel in her voice. "He was a traitor, and deserves no one's good remembrance. This way!" She climbed the steps that led to the hall, nodding when she reached the guards before the doors. A few words she spoke, gesturing to the hobbits, and then she beckoned them onward. "Come! 'Tis not far now."

"Do you know what they're talking about, your uncle and our friends?" Pippin asked, skipping a bit to catch up as Éowyn lengthened her stride a bit more. "Do you know what happens next?"

"Many things, doubtless. Edoras' people must be defended, and the muster continues to build, for the summons will have spread throughout the land. An army must be fed and housed, and such matters do not happen of their own accord. And of course, we must prepare for battle."

"Again?" Pippin protested, amazed. "But you just won!"

"Would that it were so simple, Master Took," Éowyn replied, wryly. "But the messengers who arrived perhaps an hour ago brought news that indeed, Saruman has forces still at Helm's Deep. My uncle's man encountered one of those whom I had earlier sent out, and learned that the wizard had indeed left a part of his forces there, just as Éomer suspected he would. Thus we must move swiftly to relieve the besieged--this very evening, I should think." Arriving at a spiraling staircase, she began to climb it, moving briskly, and the hobbits hurried after her.

"How far must we ride?"

"It is some day and a half's swift journey by horse," she answered easily.

"Another battle," Pippin sighed, and Éowyn quirked a fine, pale brow at him. The hobbit shrugged slightly in response to that look, which seemed puzzled, and explained, "We are not warriors, Merry and I. I fear we do not look forward to another fight."

"And yet you speak as if you would follow my brother and your friends to a war."

"Well, it is simply that... well, we have not been much use, I suppose you could say," Merry said, feeling rather awkward beneath Éowyn's gaze, which was at once solemn and yet oddly eager. "There must surely be something that we could do, and in truth, we would not be parted from them again. Not unless we must!"

"Then you would go for your honor, and to honor your friends. That is reason enough," Éowyn declared. "And here we are!" she added, as they approached a door with guards to either side. Even as they slowed, however, it opened, and out of it came Háma and Éomer, followed by Strider and Legolas. The two Rohirrim spoke quietly in their own tongue, and Strider, although he spoke with the Elf, seemed to be listening as well to the Rohirric conversation. _How does he do that?_ Merry wondered, realizing that the Ranger was speaking Sindarin at that. And then a certain dread crept over him, for Aragorn rarely used the elven tongue unless he wished to keep something between himself and Legolas, or between himself and Gandalf. _What now?_

"Éomer!" Éowyn said just then, and her brother looked up. "Excuse me," she said to the hobbits, and then went to place herself in the Third Marshal's path. Was it Merry's imagination, or did the two Men tense up at that, as if they would rather be anywhere else at just this moment? _An odd sort of lady, she. Not like I would imagine, and nothing like an Elflady, but a high-hearted one nonetheless, I think. I wonder what could make her brother flinch like that? But that is not our business, I suppose, though I daresay I could find out if I set my mind to it._ Turning to the remainder of the Fellowship, he and Pippin went quickly to join them, and at least their friends seemed glad to see them.

"Merry. Pippin," Strider greeted them. "How have you fared?"

"Well enough, save for a bit of trouble getting here through that crowd," Pippin replied. "I don't know how you Big Folk manage! Don't you ever get in each other's ways?" That inspired a chuckle, and Strider and Legolas exchanged a look.

"No more than hobbits at a birthday party, I should imagine," Strider answered. "But what brings you here?"

"Éowyn brought us," Pippin replied, and then glanced at Merry.

"She told us that we would be riding to another battle, at some place called Helm's Deep," Merry said, gazing intently up at Legolas and Aragorn.

"Indeed, that is Théoden's intention, and we leave within the hour," Legolas replied. "If we are fortunate, it shall be a short contest. We should be able to pin the enemy shall be between our forces and the Deeping Wall, at least, since the Dike is breached, according to the messengers."

"As for the rest, they go to Dunharrow, for Edoras' defenses are largely destroyed. There, even a small force might hold out for long against many, should it come to that," Aragorn added. And Merry, hearing this, narrowed his eyes as he thought through what he had just been told, and came to one conclusion.

"You're going to send us to Dunharrow, aren't you?" he asked, feeling his heart sink with the certainty of it. "You don't want us to come with you."

"It will be safer there," the Ranger replied, and although his tone held no apology, his eyes told of regretful sympathy. Pippin and Merry shot each other identical looks of disbelieving disappointment, before Pippin protested.

"But we want to come with you! And we've been in four fights already! Five, if you count Weathertop."

"None of which were anything like a pitched battle between armies," Aragorn replied, kneeling down, the better to see eye to eye, or as close as he could get, given the disparity in their heights. "Listen to me! We have been terribly fortunate thus far, for we have been far outnumbered and overmatched in all but one instance. Only the will of our enemies or a fortuitous accident has kept the lot of us alive. Even so, we have lost Gandalf, Boromir, and Gimli. Moreover, the Rohirrim are cavalry men by preference. Could you wield a lance from the back of a horse?"

"You could put us down," Merry began, and then sighed, seeing almost immediately the flaw in that logic. _If we cannot even manage in the courts below, how would we manage all alone amidst orcs and horses?_

"I am sorry, Merry, but this is not a battle for infantry, unless very skilled. At Dunharrow, we shall meet again, if fate is kind."

"Fear not, my friends," Legolas said, quietly, and something in the Elf's voice commanded immediate attention, not only from the hobbits, but from Strider as well. "You were chosen for this Fellowship, and not without reason. You will find your purpose, or it shall find you. We are all but the instruments of the Age."

"Well, I wish the Age would hurry up and figure out what to do with hobbit-shaped instruments!" Pippin muttered, pulling a sour face, but after a moment he offered a slight smile. "It doesn't sound quite so bad when you put it that way, I suppose. So long as we do have one, that is."

"When do we leave?" Merry asked.

"Éowyn shall tell you, as Théoden would have her lead the people while he is away," Strider replied, dragging his eyes from Legolas' face. And it seemed to the hobbit that he was troubled, though why, Merry could not tell. "If you would have a purpose, keep the White Lady of Rohan out of trouble!" said he, casting a significant look at the trio of Rohirrim, who still stood talking together in low, but intense, voices.

"We'll do our best. But do come back," Merry replied, eyeing his taller companions quite seriously.

"Rest easy, then, for a wretched few orcs are but pennies in the payment I intend to collect," Legolas responded, and the hobbits shivered slightly. How so fair a voice could produce so grim a note and yet be beautiful was a mystery Merry refused to contemplate too deeply. He still felt cold inside when he remembered that awful, keening lament over Gimli's body. "Fare you well, and we shall meet again in Dunharrow!" The Prince of Mirkwood smiled a smile frighteningly suited to his tone of voice, and then made them a bow ere he swept off down the hall.

"Lest you believe it a jest, do watch the lady Éowyn. I think she may need friends in the days to come, with Éomer and Théoden away," Strider said in an undertone, and smiled slightly when they nodded.

"You seem tired, still, Strider, if you don't mind my saying it," Merry said, worried. "Are you certain that you should go?"

"Such weariness as I feel comes more from the heart than from the body, and I shall not let it affect me in battle. Still, I would envy you your place in Dunharrow, if only I could. Until we meet again, my friends," he replied, rising to follow Legolas. The hobbits stared after him glumly, and then Pippin sighed.

"How many days did she say? One and a half? So three days altogether just getting there and coming back, and that assuming Dunharrow isn't much further!"

"We'll manage. We shall have to, and maybe Éowyn could find us something useful to do. Surely it must need a lot of hands to keep so many people in order!"

"I suppose," Pippin replied, sounding unconvinced.

"Well then, let's not think too much on it, shall we? Come on, Pip, they'll be back soon," Merry said, determinedly, just as the meeting of Rohirrim broke up. The two men followed in the wake of Aragorn and Legolas, leaving Éowyn standing there, gazing at the hobbits with a rueful smile and eyes like ice... if ice could burn.

"It would seem that we three shall be companions for awhile, or so say your faces, and doubtless mine as well," she said at length. "Come then! There is much to do, and I would not have any say that we stood idle while others fought." Holding out her hands to them, she beckoned, and they came. Éowyn's grip was firm, and Merry was surprised to feel the calluses on her palms and fingers. _As rough as Strider's hands, and almost as strong,_ he thought, gazing up at her. _Not an ordinary lady, this one! Well, I thought I could figure her out if I had time. I suppose now I'll have the chance to do so._ Somewhat heartened by that thought, he let Éowyn lead him through the passages of Meduseld, and hoped that the mystery would keep him too busy to worry about absent friends.

***

It was somewhat more than an hour later that Aragorn sat his horse at the head of the waiting ranks of Riders. Evening would come all too soon, but Théoden was determined that they should make a start, and the steeds of the Mark, at least, would be fresh. A little ways away, Legolas perched, having found a horse to suit him and rid himself of the hated bridle and saddle. They had argued, after leaving the hobbits, about his participation in the next battle, but the elf would not be gainsaid.

"I am not beholden to you, Aragorn; now I know what it is that ails me, I will be well enough to do what honor–to say nothing of affection–requires. Already, I had learned sufficient to risk the walls, and I was no danger to the men about me," Legolas had said firmly, green eyes flashing. It had been the capstone to a rather difficult meeting, for with a brief space between battles, it had fallen at last to Aragorn to explain something of the business of the Fellowship that had led them to the Mark. He had felt Legolas' eyes upon him for the omission of all mention of the Song, but the elf had apparently decided that there was some wisdom in silence on that matter. Nevertheless, it had been an uncomfortable hour, and the argument afterward had not improved his mood. Aragorn had been forced eventually to bow to Legolas' decision, but he was hardly happy to see the other take up a position in line now.

At length, Théoden appeared, with Éomer trailing in his wake. The King of the Mark nodded gravely to him, and Aragorn returned the gesture. _I should not argue Legolas' place in this line if I am unwilling to argue Théoden's,_ he told himself, striving for equitability. For certainly, Théoden was no warrior in his prime; age was an ill that none could cure, nor could a few days in the saddle suffice for a man to recover all his strength. But when Éomer, during their conference earlier that afternoon, had suggested that Théoden should ride to Dunharrow, the king had replied, "If what Aragorn has told us this day of the meaning of the Rhyme of Imladris is true, then it is not meet that I remain. For I am old, my son–yes, I name you so now, for you have been as a son for many years, and Théodred now is gone–and though I would it were otherwise, I have but little left to give, and I owe much. Such prudence as I have for governance–this was meant for another time, and I grieve that I used it not these last years, when I might have done so and so honored what the years have given me. Therefore I shall ride." To that, none had been able to muster an objection.

The King of the Mark now made his way to the head of the mass of horsemen, turning his charger and standing in the stirrups to survey the _éored_ , and also the people who had gathered at the ruined gates, including Éowyn, accompanied by two small figures at her side. Gold-chased armor gleamed in the shafts of weak, afternoon sunlight and a ruddy light shone in his white braids. _A sunset king for the world's eventide_ , Aragorn could not help but think, though he was quick to thrust that thought aside as memory turned elsewhere, across the leagues to Lórien and another who bore the sunset in her name. _Shall you come again?_ Arwen's voice whispered in his mind, and Aragorn drew a deep breath as he raised a hand, returning the farewell waves of Merry and Pippin. _Until Dunharrow_ , he thought once more, and resolutely.

And then the horns blew, and Théoden reared his horse, that all might see as he pointed west and cried: "For Helm's Deep!"

"For Helm's Deep and Théoden King!" chorused the men. From the gates they thundered forth, and the sound resounded in the land, long after the Riders had been swallowed in the sunset's brilliance.

* * *

Thanks again to HF for correcting the OE.

For I am old, my son–yes, I name you so now, for you have been as a son for many years—cf. "The Muster of Rohan", TTT, 78


	23. Through the Wastelands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never noticed the hobbits using different measures from Aragorn or the rest of the world. But you'd think they would have a local measurement more appropriate to their size, though they'd be conversant with measurements out of Bree, which match our own. And since Sam was needing to cheer Frodo up a bit, I thought I'd let him have his Shire standard, for all the good it did him.

_One Note. One Note that breached the Void, piercing the Silence. Still, it was alone, Monotone, and without Chord or companion, it could but diffuse itself throughout the Void to touch upon the broken ends of Song, and wait for the guidance of another...._

"A hand, Sam! Give me a hand, if you can."

Sam hastened forward, reaching up with both arms to steady his master as Frodo dangled from the last handhold to be found. "I'm right here, Master Frodo! You can let go, it's just a little drop. And you know if I'm saying it, it ain't more than a Shire yard to the ground," he declared firmly. Which was not to say that Sam had much enjoyed making that drop himself, Shire yard or no, but there was no need to say so. _If you can't say any good of it, then why open your mouth at all?_ he'd always been told. Good advice, and Sam was guiltily aware that he had not been very diligent in applying it for quite some time. In fairness, most of his complaints were voiced with an eye to protecting his master. But this grey and menacing land stood the hair on his head straight up, it seemed, and drew forth fears that might've been better left unspoken. Hours they would scramble and to Sam's suspicious eyes, the dull, somber heights seemed unchanged: at the end of the day, however hard and long they toiled, it seemed they returned ever to the same view of those aloof, threatening crags.

_And though it's likely a mad notion, I could swear that they watch us, those peaks! Hills, they call them—mountains to me, and they don't much like us, I think._ Just then, however, Frodo released his hold on the rock face they had been climbing, and Sam grunted as he tried to steady the other, who landed rather heavily. He earned himself a stubbed toe for his trouble, but Frodo, after a few moments spent panting, straightened up again and sighed as he glanced round.

"Well, that was a bit of a fright. I'm sorry, Sam, I don't know what came over me just then," Frodo said, frowning slightly as he glanced out from their shelf to the east, whence came darkness descending with the failure of day.

"It weren't nothing, Mr. Frodo," Sam replied quickly, surreptitiously wiggling his abused toes. "After all, we hobbits were never made for climbing, that's certain! Look at that, will you?" Sam gestured at the sheer drop on the southern side of their rocky perch. Down it plunged, thrice, possibly even four times, the height of a Man, 'til it reached a spur of rock that led out into a valley of tumbled boulders. "Maybe Strider and Boromir could manage that, and I'm sure Legolas could, but you and me, not a chance."

"Well, not without help. And that side leads back west in any case, or so it seems from the way it bends. This side seems a bit more manageable," Frodo replied. "If we take this—I hesitate to say 'path' but I don't know what else I might call it—if we take it, there looks to be a cranny or a bit of an outcropping there that we can sleep in or behind for a time." He sighed softly, glancing east once more, as night wafted in past the Ephel Dúath. "Tomorrow, we can try the rest of the climb and see whither that gully leads. I do wish we had a map or some notion of how these hills lie."

"I don't know as it'd do us any good, begging your pardon, sir," Sam replied, taking the lead down the 'path.' It was more of a ledge, and Sam felt his heart pounding at the sight of the broken earth below. Determinedly, he pressed on, talking for the sake of sound and strained nerves. "You need a hand free to read a map, and nothing to disturb you. Maybe an Elf could read one without trouble—they walk ropes and run along tree branches like they're proper roads, so maybe they wouldn't see no trouble here. Now me, I need both my eyes and hands to keep on the track."

"I don't suppose even the Men of Gondor would have a reason to come so far, either," Frodo admitted reluctantly. "Who knows if anyone has ever charted these hills?" Which only brought home again how very isolated they were, how far from friends and the bustle of daily life. Following in Sam's wake, therefore, Frodo let the other's chatter wash over him, hoping to hold at bay with it that chill paralysis that threatened at times to overwhelm him, to root him to his spot, unthinking and helpless. Not that he hadn't cause for such fits of panic, given the heights that they had scaled in the past three days, but they worried him. It was as if he would sink suddenly into darkness in those moments, and afterwards, at night, his dreams were plagued with memories of Weathertop and the long dark of Moria.

_And they are but a foreshadowing, as it were, of the darkness that hangs over us,_ Frodo thought grimly, as he reached their shallow scoop of a campsite and sat down at Sam's side. Settling back again, he put his back against the wall and bowed his head. The eastern wind whistled in the passes, and as Frodo nodded off into an uneasy sleep, his mind made of it a lamentation to the lost ones of Middle-earth.

All through the night, the hobbits tossed and turned, shivering in their sleep and waking ever and anon for no discernible reason. It was nearly a relief to wake to a glimmer in the east, though it meant another day of toil, for it had seemed wrong to call 'night' so sleepless a period. Breakfast was a hurried affair beneath a murky sky, and the reek from the bogs below was oppressive, lending a faint flavor of decay even to the lembas. Nevertheless, they made the most of their rations, for Frodo was determined that today they should find a way into the rift that bypassed the bogs. "We have already wandered too long," he said, standing at the edge of the ledge, staring down at the slope. "Four days it has been since we left the Fellowship."

"Do you think they're all right, sir?" Sam asked, in an unusually hesitant voice, and winced slightly when Frodo's face grew very still and almost hard in the dawn-light.

"We cannot think of them now, Sam," Frodo replied, his voice flat. Adjusting the weight of his pack, he pointed at the pocked rock face. "There are plenty of hand holds here, and the slope is not so steep as it is elsewhere. We should be able to work our way north-east. Come, let us go!" Sam only nodded, watching as Frodo began scrambling down as fast as a hobbit could manage.

_I shouldn't have asked him that_ , he thought, as he, too, began to climb, though much more slowly and carefully. _I shouldn't remind him. If they weren't my friends, I'd not want to think of them either, alone back there... with the orcs, seemingly. The orcs we left them to. And no way across the river, if they needed to get across. And with Boromir. Boromir!_ Sam did not precisely fear what the others might say to him—it was plain as day on Rose Cotton's face that he knew he'd been wrong. Worse than been wrong, he'd done wrong. The others might have forgiven him, but Boromir promised to be poor company after that, and Sam could scarcely fathom what the Man must feel now. _Enough o' that, my lad!_ he berated himself, clutching tightly at the rough slope, panting hard as a few pebbles slipped out from underfoot. _This is not the place for wool-gathering, no matter what sort of wool it may be._

After that, Sam took good care to concentrate on his climbing, until at length he heard Frodo's voice call up from below. "You're nearly there, Sam! Another ten feet, I'd say."

"Shire or Bree?" demanded Sam through clenched teeth, hoping against hope for Shire.

"Well, Bree, to be honest."

"Meaning no offense to any of the Big Folk, but did they have to be so tall? I was happy with Shire measures and miles with more feet in 'em." But though Sam listened carefully, he heard no laughter from below. Perhaps the wind covered it, but he suspected not. It had been too long since Frodo had laughed easily at anything. Eventually, however, he stood at Frodo's side again, and if his master seemed a bit preoccupied, he also managed a fleeting smile for Sam before they began once more to work their way down through the piled rocks, outbound to the east. All that morning they scrambled, 'til Sam's fingers were scraped, all ten of them, and his feet were sore. Around mid-afternoon, a storm broke out overhead, nearly washing them away, and although they were able to descend a bit further afterwards, they were slowed by the slick pathways that they walked.

_And if we're any closer to the end of these hills, I couldn't tell!_ Sam thought, dispiritedly. They had come a few times to steep precipices that overlooked the plains, but none of them had proved scaleable, even with Sam's rope. "Not unless you figure we could drop off at the end," Sam had once said.

"No, I think not. There must be another way down." And so they had continued on at Frodo's insistence, though it seemed that every turn led them to a dead-end. Towards evening, as the light began to fade in earnest, however, Frodo beckoned to Sam with an urgent note in his voice. "Look! I think we may have found a way. See?" Frodo pointed, and Sam sighed softly, as he stared unhappily down at the too-distant ground.

"Well, if you say so. But not without a rope am I going down that. And you neither," Sam replied, setting his pack down to search for Haldir's rope. Pulling it out from among his other belongings, he found a useful rock and tied it securely before throwing the free end over the edge. So still was the air that the hobbits could hear it slither against the rocks as it uncoiled. Frodo made as if to go first, but Sam stopped him with an out-flung arm. "Let me go, Mr. Frodo. Not that we haven't spent an unnatural long time dangling on cliff edges the past few days, but this is the furthest we've had to climb in one go. May as well be me who slips first. And if I do, I don't want you underneath me."

"Sam—"

"No. You stay here and follow me in a bit," Sam replied, cutting him off as, before Frodo could object, he dropped to his knees, took firm hold of the rope, and slid over the edge. Frodo sighed inwardly, resigning himself to humoring Sam. He had wanted to tell him that it hardly mattered who went first—it was a doomed effort, after all. _But mayhap it is better he didn't let me,_ he thought, striving against the temptation to let himself slip once more into the bleak pit of hopelessness. It was so easy a fall! It ought not to be so easy, yet the path he trod between despair and defiant hope was thinner than the slender ropes of the Elves, and sharper than the rocks that awaited the unwary traveler below.

Frodo closed his eyes, clutching the Ring hard through his clothes and felt it heavy around his neck. _I know the worst,_ he reminded himself, gritting his teeth. _I know it, but what of it? Why should Sam have to suffer this burden of mine? There are forces in the world—good and evil. And though it seems that the Darkness must come, we have our small triumphs in spite of it. Or because of it, perhaps, I do not know. Maybe it is enough right now that Sam has a little hope, in spite of what happened at Parth Galen_. That caused Frodo to wince, for he had not meant to be so very cold to Sam earlier. In truth, he, too, worried about their friends, and a part of him cringed at the thought that even if he were to reach Mt. Doom, he might well find that his efforts and Sam's had not saved them, who so deserved to know peace.

But another part, which he knew to be right, yet which he despised nonetheless, knew very well that it was their place to die on that greensward, if it meant that he and Sam could continue onward. _And they know it,_ Frodo thought, determinedly refusing to use the past tense as he prepared to scale the cliff face. _They know it—Legolas and Gimli, Aragorn and Boromir. I think even Pippin and Merry know but... but let us not think about this!_

"Are you coming now, Mr. Frodo?" Sam's voice drifted upward from below.

"Yes, Sam," he replied, and swung over the edge into darkness.

The next day was much the same, although at least it seemed that Sam and Frodo had at last found the proper track. About the feet of the Emyn Muil they climbed, picking their way down a long, gentle slope that northwards between two great ridges of rock ran. The slope became a good-sized gully, and a shallow stream trickled through it, dodging the rocks on its way out to the mires. Stony as the land was, it was at least relatively flat, and they made good progress, particularly once they left the boulders behind for a flat sort of rocky shelf. Its surface was riddled with eroded waterways, though only one seemed now to carry any, as their stream fell away to the left. The gully's walls were still higher than a hobbit's head, but even to Sam and Frodo, they did not seem unmanageable. Nevertheless, it seemed to go on a very long time. All that day and into the early hours of the night, they walked and tried not to trip over the shallow grooves in the stone. When they could go no further, they huddled against one of the walls and slept for a time. Dawn saw them wandering steadily forward, as the rock gave way to earth, eventually, until at long last, the gully emptied out onto the rotted plains.

"Well, I can't say but that that's a relief," Sam sighed, wiping sweat from his brow and stretching in the sunlight. Casting a final glance back at the sad, silent heights of the mountains, he shook his head. "Marshes we've done before, at least."

"True enough, although I dare say they shall be just as unpleasant as Midgewater, if not worse. East of the river Mordor's power lies heavy on the land," murmured Frodo, staring out at the fume-enshrouded peaks of the Ephel Dúath. Sam gave him a sharp look, not liking that pronouncement at all, nor the queer note in his master's voice. "So heavy.... Everything is silent, bowed beneath that withering gaze. So heavy... so very heavy...." At this point, Sam frowned, worried. So heavy, Frodo said, and seemed to mean the Enemy's shadow on the plains, and yet.... _And yet, I don't know. What else could he mean? The Ring, perhaps?_ Troubled, Sam laid a hand on Frodo's shoulder and, when his master did not move, assumed his most matter-of-fact tone and said:

"Well, standing here looking at it won't make it no easier. Nothing ever got done just staring at it, my Gaffer always told me, and I expect he's right."

Frodo blinked at that, and shook his head, seeming to come out of his reflections. "Hm? Oh. Yes, well then, let's go, Sam. I suppose we are lucky after a fashion. We could've spent another two days in those hills, if we had not stumbled onto the right path."

"I suppose so, though I don't remember any path, sir," Sam replied, and proffered one of his best scowls in imitation of old Ham Gamgee. That usually got a chuckle out of Frodo, who complained that Sam would never master the art of glaring. But as before, Frodo said nothing, seemed not to notice, and strode onwards with a vigor and determination that might have made him seem intimidating, had he had Strider's height. As it was, 'forlorn' and 'pitiful' were probably closer to the truth, and Sam hurried after him. Hours passed. For a time, it was a pleasant relief to feel living earth and grass underfoot, rather than sharp, hard rock or dead soil. But as the day waned, the ground began to grow muddier, and reedy tussocks or the occasional scraggly bush dotted the landscape, springing up from the stagnant pools of water.

"Phew! What a stink! To think, we'll smell like this place for days," Sam muttered, waving a hand before his nose. It was a futile gesture—the fens were vast and there was no escaping the scent of putrefaction and decomposition. "Where are we headed, Mr. Frodo? Do you know?" he asked after a moment.

"I should know—I suppose that in one sense, I do, but... not truly. I studied the maps that Elrond kept, but Rivendell seems so very dim to me," Frodo sighed, pausing a moment to look round. "I remember that both Gandalf and Aragorn agreed that the Dagorlad was to be avoided, and that that lies north of here. I cannot say how wide these fens are, but it seems we must cross them, and make as straight a line east as we can for the Black Gate."

"Well, I can't say as I remember anything about maps, so I'm no help at all. But you seem to remember an awful lot, sir," Sam said, encouragingly.

"No," Frodo replied sadly, shaking his head. "I remember the words. I remember hearing Gandalf and Aragorn speaking of the southern lands. But I cannot see the map in my mind. I can barely see Strider and Gandalf in the library. Where Rivendell ought to be, there are only words, and a few sparse memories of light and faces. Let's go on."

By nightfall, the hobbits had come perhaps two leagues, weary as they were. Thus far, they had managed to navigate their way through the marsh with only minor mishaps. Sam had fallen into one of the deeper pools when a low, reed-covered rise had suddenly ended, and Frodo had had to pull him out. Later, Frodo had discovered a quagmire. After that incident, Sam had insisted that he take the lead. "Clumsy I may be, but better me than you, Mr. Frodo," he had said firmly. "I'd give a lot, though, for a walking stick. You remember that Strider picked one up in Chetwood when he knew we'd be going into the marshes. Kept us out of most sorts of trouble with it."

"I do remember that. But I don't see much that would serve, even for a hobbit. These bushes are too thin and starved."

"Well," Sam had replied, stooping and hefting a small, slime-covered rock, "I'm not a bad one with stones, and stones'll reach further than sticks anyway."

As the hobbits crept now under the meager cover of one of the scrawny bushes, seeking shelter for the night, Sam's pockets bulged. He now had several such mire-stones (as he called them) in them, their numbers replenished at every opportunity, for Sam used them quite a lot. They did make for some discomfort, though, and he set about piling them on the ground at his side. Frodo, in the mean time, had fallen asleep almost immediately, curled up tightly under his cloak. He seemed so weary that Sam did not wake him, not even for supper. "Such as it is," he muttered under his breath, nibbling on waybread and wishing for apples. Or taters. Or anything, so long as it wasn't _lembas_. Not that he was truly tired of it, but he foresaw a long walk with naught but elven wafers for sustenance.

Having finished his dinner, Sam sat with his arms about his knees, keeping uneasy watch. A heavy mist had settled over the land, as if the fens' daily noisome exhalations had taken form, and Sam wrinkled his nose as he sipped moodily at his water. Squinting through the night, he thought he could make out a few stars, if he looked nearly straight up. All the rest was fog-obscured darkness, yet though he could not see them, Sam was uncomfortably aware of the jagged mountains to the east. They brooded over all the land, malicious and impenetrable, and if he stared long enough towards where he knew them to stand, he began to believe that in fact, he could see them: looming sentinels on Mordor's borders.

_And if that isn't my imagining things, then I don't want to know what it is!_ Sam shivered, and for once it had nothing to do with the clammy cold. Glancing down once more at Frodo, he felt a stab of fear lance through his heart. All the long way from Hobbiton, he had watched his master grow quiet and grave, and seen a deeper anguish work its way into Frodo's eyes. Ever since Moria, Sam thought. Once, he might not have known what to call that which looked out through Frodo's eyes, or which showed itself in that fist that gripped ever at the Ring through cloth and _mithril_ , or in that hardness of voice that wanted to break under its own strain. But Sam could not be rid of the memory of Galadriel's mirror, and Frodo, it seemed, could not leave Moria behind. Parth Galen had been the bridge of Khazad-dûm all over again.

_Except that there was no Strider to lead us, or to tell us where to go. There was no Gandalf telling us to run, just me and Mr. Frodo._ What it all added up to, he wasn't quite certain, but he thought he understood a little better now the anguish in his master's unguarded looks.

***

The next day was spent trudging along, floundering through the watery maze, and after awhile, Sam gave up tossing stones at suspicious patches of ground. There was no point: not only was there not a square foot of soil as seemed secure in his eyes, but he couldn't see anything anyway. For the mist did not lift, and seemed only to grow thicker as they pressed further into the marshes. They had slept the night before facing east, which had at least set them off in the proper direction. But as the day had worn on, they had had to go far round about to avoid the deep and often quite broad meres, or to escape tracts of mires. So bad was the vapor that the hobbits had to grope forward, hand in hand, to avoid losing each other, trusting to touch and blind luck to guide them in this space, where sight and sound failed utterly.

"What I wouldn't give for a breeze to clear out this murk," Sam sighed once, wincing at how loud his own voice seemed. "But there's not a breath of it, not even a bird's whistle to break through this."

"No. Nothing lives here now," Frodo answered, his reply falling flat and dead into the still air, as if the mists had strangled it. "It's like a dream... or a nightmare that never ended. Something happened here—something terrible, for the malaise to linger so long on this land." Sam shivered at that, and it seemed to him afterwards that the silence was worse than ever before. By mid-afternoon, the drenched, slime-coated hobbits came to a sudden stop. They had come to a patch of ground that seemed dry enough for this miserable land, and without speaking, the two sank down onto the moist earth.

"It's not that I want to stay here any longer than I have to, Mr. Frodo, but I've got to stop," Sam panted, shivering with cold, and shook his head as he huddled in his wet cloak. "I'm dead tired right now, and I hate this stench, and... and I don't know! Something about this place and this mist just strikes me to the core, and I can't hardly move."

"It's the air," Frodo replied.

"It's more than the air, beggin' your pardon, sir," Sam answered. "It's everything. It's the mud, and the water, and the smell, and the air, and these blasted, sharp-edged reeds and wretched bushes—it's all the world, as far as I can tell right now!" There came a silence, and Sam felt his cheeks heating in embarrassment. _Now what happened just then? Where'd all that come from?_ he wondered, shocked by his own sudden vehemence.

"I'm sorry, Sam." Frodo's voice was soft, subdued, and ordinarily, Sam would've hastened to apologize himself, for he had not meant to drag Frodo's spirits down with his own. But there was something in the other's tone—something relentless, yet resigned... implacable, maybe, if implacable knew how to suffer at the same time. Such things passed beneath or else beyond Sam's ability to voice, yet he knew them, and before them, he remained silent. For long they sat, turned a little away from each other, and Sam felt his eyes drifting shut of their own accord. _Just for a little while, whispered the voice of sleep. Only a little while... surely a few minutes are not so very many...._

_Stop that!_ Sam jerked straight, rubbing at his eyes with grimy hands, and he blinked at the pale light. _Light? Light!_ "Mr. Frodo! Look!" Before them, some fifteen feet away, it seemed, hovered a bright spot in the mists—a pale luminosity that flickered a bit as its rays stole through the drifting haze.

"I see it! There are more, I think," Frodo replied, sounding tense with wary curiosity.

"What do you think it is, sir?"

"I don't know. I've never seen such a thing."

"You don't suppose," Sam paused, lowering his voice further still and gripping his sword pensively, "you don't suppose that there's someone out there in that muck?"

"It isn't moving... they just... appear and then... then disappear. Look there! Like that, just as if they were snuffed."

"And then relit," Sam murmured, watching one of them blink into existence just as another went dark. "What do you think, Mr. Frodo?"

"I think," Frodo said slowly, rising, "that we should leave. We have sat here long enough."

"But which way do we go?" Sam asked, glancing about and seeing naught but grey mist and occasional dim radiance.

"This way," replied Frodo in a strangely hush tone, and Sam felt him fumble for his hand. Clutching at it, Sam found himself led along he knew not whither. Great tendrils and clouds of mist swirled before his eyes, coming between Frodo and himself, and the odd, sullen lights drifted by about him. The ground was wet and cold beneath his feet, and rather slimy, and the mud sucked at every step, but Frodo kept moving. _I don't like this_ , Sam thought, watching uneasily as another light blinked out suddenly. _He wasn't half this sure of himself when we could see our path... if you can call it a path that we've been walking. And now this. How does he know? Or is he only guessing?_

Just then, the terrain changed suddenly, and Sam let out a yelp of alarm as he went to his knees. He felt Frodo's hand slip from his grasp, and chill water greeted his outstretched hands with a soft splash. "Are you all right? Sam?" Frodo called back to him, though he could not have been more than a foot or two distant. A shadow knelt beside him, and as Frodo leaned close to peer anxiously at him, Sam sighed softly.

"I tripped," said he unnecessarily. "Something uneven here about the ground, and I... bless me, but look at that!" For just as he had been speaking, one of the lights had appeared before them, low-lying as some of them were, although it still hovered over Sam and Frodo. Greenish it appeared up close, or perhaps a pale blue, and Sam reached out to wave a hand beneath it, only to feel cool air against his palm. "Nothin' there," he muttered, bowing his head an instant, anxious and perplexed... and that was when he saw it. With a cry, he scrambled back on all fours.

"What is it?"

"There's a Man in there!"

"What?"

"In the water! Look in the water!" Frodo, frowning, did so, peering cautiously over the edge of the ill-lit pool. And for all that it was murky, he saw with great clarity the water's treasure. A young man he beheld, eyes wide and darkly staring, clad in mail, and his hair streamed out to mingle with the fallen reeds. A long lost soldier, waxy and bloodless now, though Frodo could see the tears and rents in the armor where swords had done their vicious work.

Perfectly preserved, he seemed, and yet decay lay heavy upon him—stir the water but a little, and he would disappear as flesh and fragile bone dissolved in the mere's reeking bosom. Touch his hair, and it would drift to the surface; touch his face, and fingers would sink into his skull; the white tree upon his tabard seemed wilted. And to Frodo's horror, those dead eyes seemed to stare at him accusingly, and a dead hand seemed to point, as if this long-forgotten son of Gondor knew where lay the Doom that had brought him and so many of his brethren to an untimely end. At just that moment, the light over the pool flickered and died, and suddenly, the water was dark again.

Slowly, Frodo backed away, heart hammering in his chest, and the Ring seemed to hang heavy on its chain, dragging him down. _Work of my Hand, and work of yours, Ring-bearer!_ mocked an insidious little voice in his mind.

"Mr. Frodo?" Sam's worried voice murmured, and he felt the other's hands upon his shoulders.

"We must keep moving... keep moving, and... and not look into the pools. Never look into the pools," Frodo managed, clambering to his feet. He grabbed one of Sam's hands, clutching hard, and began once more to walk, as swift as he could, skirting the pool by as wide a berth as he dared. "Come, Sam, let's—did you hear that?"

"If by 'that' you mean— _that_ ," Sam whispered hoarsely, just as noises issued from somewhere to his left... and far too close at hand. It took him a moment to realize what it was, but then he felt his blood run cold. _Someone wading through the waters... a lot of someones,_ he thought. _Who would come here?_ It seemed far too much to hope that a company of Boromir's people had strayed into this swamp, for surely they would prefer to hunt their enemies elsewhere. Which left the hobbits with the unpleasant conclusion that perhaps their enemies might prefer to use the marshes as a byway....

_Orcs!_ Sam swallowed. Breathless, the hobbits stood still, waiting to see how events would turn. The strangers who filed through the marsh were now clearly orcish, for a few low-muttered curses could be heard amid the splashing. A fair-sized company, it seemed, that walked the fens, passing like misshapen ghosts in the mists. Sam stuck his knuckles in his mouth and hoped that orcs had worse hearing than Elves. His other hand, though, crept down to the grip of his Barrow-blade, and he waited, tense, wishing he had, say, Boromir's height and strength. _Although I suppose it'd be a lot harder for a Man to hide, even with this fog._ Which was why Sam decided that perhaps it would be better to have Strider's skills—at least then, he'd have a chance if it came to either fight or flight.

Of a sudden, he felt Frodo leaning against him, shaking like a leaf. _What's wrong... oh blast, the Ring!_ It had happened before, at Weathertop, and Sam had known intuitively that his master had been in trouble of the worst and most helpless sort. And now it had struck again. Hastily, Sam reached across himself to grasp at Frodo's hands, hoping that if the other had something else to hold onto, the Ring's allure would not be unbearable. Frodo's grip was painful, as if the other sought to anchor himself to Sam's solid support.

Yet the tremors did not cease, and Sam felt fear congeal in his stomach, as he tried desperately to think of what to do. If they moved, they would surely be heard and pursued unless they were extremely careful, but they had already made quite a bit of ruckus over that poor lad in the mere. _What if we just stayed still? In this mist, they could pass two feet in front of us and never know we were here! And there's enough water in this ground that surely the scent won't stick! We both just smell like swamp anyway._ It was not, he realized, as if they had a choice. Until the fit had passed, Frodo could not move, not with any stealth at least. _Best to stay here, then. Hold on, Mr. Frodo, just hold on a bit longer—_

"Hai!" Just then, a shadow loomed up right over them, stepping out of the fog as if by magic. _A scout!_ Sam didn't think, he simply reacted. Jerking a hand free, he grabbed his sword, swept it out, and struck. The orc shrieked... and it continued to shriek as Sam and Frodo abandoned all caution and ran. Sam had surprised his foe, but the blow, though fatal, had not pieced either heart or lungs, and so his enemy continued to scream and writhe after it had fallen. Harsh cries went up behind them as the orcs bounded forward in pursuit.

For his part, Sam did his best to avoid the bushes and reeds, and if he fell, he scrambled up again as fast as he could. But between the orcs behind him and the mist all about him, he soon lost sight of Frodo. Panic struck deep in that instant, and Sam opened his mouth to shout... and then the cry died ere ever it could leave his lips. _Don't give him away, Sam Gamgee!_ a voice in his head cried. And hard on that thought came the realization that perhaps... perhaps it was better if he did lose Frodo. _Because maybe that means the orcs will, too. They can't know how many we are, can they?_

And so it was that Sam found his steps slowing, found himself turning back round to face the orcs. He couldn't possibly win in any fight, but Sam did his best, trying to recall any and all advice that Strider or Boromir had ever given him on sword-work. _Keep moving_ , chiefly, and _Don't hesitate_ came to mind, and when the orcs appeared before him, he didn't. With a snarl as fierce as he could make it, Sam flung himself at his pursuers. The first orc dropped, surprised like the other, and the second one was caught trying to turn. Curses rang out all around him— _So much for keep moving!_ —and the circle closed. Sam got a few—in such close quarters, it was inevitable. And so was the flat of the blade that slammed into the back of his head, sending consciousness fleeing in an explosion of stars....

_... and a burst of Sound._

* * *

Welcome to Book IV. Long ago, I decided I would follow JRRT's original division of labor (Sam and Frodo/ the remainder of the Company), so anyone interested in charting the course of this tale can make a check mark next to "Taming of Sméagol" and "The Passage of the Marshes." I apologize for the rather dull bits—I'm afraid I find swamps and being lost in hills rather monotonous, yet I couldn't quite bypass them. After this, it gets better, I swear!—Dwimordene

Author's additional note: I never noticed the hobbits using different measures from Aragorn or the rest of the world. But you'd think they would have a local measurement more appropriate to their size, though they'd be conversant with measurements out of Bree, which match our own. And since Sam was needing to cheer Frodo up a bit, I thought I'd let him have his Shire standard, for all the good it did him.


	24. Black Gate-Bound

            Pain. Sam felt a whimper stick in the back of his throat as he groggily roused from a stupor. His head throbbed, and he felt nauseated as he struggled to remember what had happened. __Orcs! Heavens help me, there were orcs!__ In a flash of clarity, it all came back to him--the marsh, and the mere; the orcs in the fog, and running... running, then turning to fight because Frodo.... __Where's Mr. Frodo?_ _ That got his eyes open despite the pain, and Sam blinked away blurred vision. The darkish mass that hung before him resolved itself. An orc leered at him, looming over him, and Sam gasped.

"Gar, so the rat's awake," the goblin spat. Then, raising his voice, he called, "Hey lads! He's awake!"

A chorus of harsh laughter rang out, along with jeering insults, of a nature and crudity to make Sam blush despite the horrible circumstances. A ring of dirty, orcish faces appeared, crowding at the edges of his vision as they pressed in, lured by the prospect of fresh prey.

" _ _This__ dropped Dráshnig?"

"He ain't more than a mouthful!"

"Rat's got a pretty bauble, though!" Claws snatched at Sam's cloak, curling around the leaf-clasp of Lórien, and shook him like a cat would a mouse.

"Drop him!" At that sharp command, the orcs fell back a bit, muttering, and Sam winced as he was let fall back to the ground ungently. Craning his neck, the hobbit saw a somewhat larger orc step into the ring of onlookers. And as he gazed flatly at his followers, Sam felt a shiver run down his spine. __It seems like there's orcs, and then there's orcs_ ,_ he thought fearfully, watching as the other goblins drew back before that angry, menacing stare. And while they were cringing, Sam tried to see a bit more of his surroundings. From the muck and slime, they were still in the marshes, but the fog seemed less thick here. __And where is Mr. Frodo? I hope he got away!_ _ For as far as Sam could see, he stood a good chance of getting caught in the middle of an orcish fray and stabbed.

"We followed you into the horse-boys' land and out again empty-handed, Grishnákh! We stayed with you when those other crawling vermin abandoned in the blasted rock hills, afraid to come home in your company. And our folk caught the worst of it back by the river. It weren't Uglúk's boys as got ripped apart by that cursed _ _tark__ warrior, it was us! I say we've earned a bit of a reward," snarled one of the orcs, getting some grunts and mutters of agreement. Sam shivered.

Above him, the orc-captain growled, "Our orders are to take halfling prisoners alive and unspoiled. Or have you forgotten what the Nazgûl said?" Grishnákh eyed the rebellious lot of them, who became suddenly much more subdued. With a grunt, he continued, "That's more the spirit, lads. Remember that if the Nazgûl isn't pleased, it'll not be me shrieking while he pulls bones out one by one. Hear?"

A ragged and grudging chorus of "aye" came back, and the orc-- _ _Grishnákh?__ \--turned his attention to Sam, who swallowed hard and did his best to look him in the face, scowling as fiercely as he could. Apparently, though, the Gaffer's favorite frown was not particularly impressive to an orc, for the goblin simply laughed evilly. "So, my rat has still some spirit in him, eh? We'll see to that. For the Great Eye wants a word with you, little halfling," Grishnákh grinned malevolently, as he leaned close to whisper in Sam's ear. "A private word, about something you stole from Him." __Bless me if I've ever wanted to see Strider or Gandalf more than right now!__ Sam thought, clenching his teeth and holding his breath against the reek of the other as he tried vainly to put even a little distance between himself and the orc.

"Get him up! You, take the other but keep your claws to yourself," Grishnákh ordered then. __The other?__ Sam froze, feeling his heart sink, and the queasy feeling grew worse. But an orc grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and, muttering, picked him up like a newborn kit, carrying him along with no regard to Sam's aching head, or his strangled noises, as he choked against the claws that scraped throat. The orc found a place in the forming line that suited him and then fairly dropped Sam. The hobbit groaned, feeling his teeth rattle in his head. For a moment, his vision blurred again, and he blinked furiously. He might have spent some moments wishing that he could raise his bound hands to his face to help clear his sight, but the fear was overwhelming as he craned his neck up at his captors. _ _The other... where is the other? Frodo?__ Lumpish, deformed figures the orcs seemed, in their armor and with their slinking posture, gathered all about him so that he could hardly see a thing otherwise. Where was Frodo? Where--

            And then, in a shattering instant, he saw an orc lope into place with a small, grey-cloaked, mud-bespattered figure slung limply over his shoulder. Speech failed Sam--his mind simply refused to put words to the keening horror that filled him, and he felt himself struck dumb. And then there was no time for words, for Grishnákh shouted orders and the whole troop began to move, sweeping Sam helplessly along.

***

How long they ran, Sam would never know, and he didn't much care. His skull had pounded in time to his own stumbling strides, jarred with each step, and a few times, he had actually collided with one of the orcs. Usually, that had earned him a shove and a curse, and the line had kept moving. Through ankle-deep muck and slime they had run, with Sam struggling to pull free of the clinging earth. Sometimes, sunk in his own misery, Sam did not notice the reeds or the bushes, and leaves would snap across his face, leaving stinging cuts. Sometimes, the orcs, reaching a mere, would simply trample through it. Once, when Sam had begun to flounder in a pool, which had been deeper than expected, an orc had grabbed an arm and dragged him, spitting water all the way and gasping for air, through the murky, churned water. Nothing slowed them--it had seemed that the orcs would never tire, and would simply continue running so long as they were shielded from the sun's rays!

But at long last, yells came back down the line, and the company slowed, then stopped. Sam collapsed to his knees, then curled onto his side, chest heaving, head throbbing, and there was a peculiar, foul taste in his mouth. __Likely that swamp water_ ,_ he thought. __What on earth was in it? Never mind, I don't want to know! And where is Frodo?__ Bestirring himself to open his eyes, Sam blearily glanced about, vainly searching for him, but it seemed that the orcs wanted to keep the two hobbits apart. __What happens now?__ Sam wondered, twitching feebly against the ropes that bound his hands behind his back. His legs felt like jelly after that run, and (ominously) he did not think he could stomach the thought of food. Not that the orcs looked like feeding him any time soon. They were all sitting upon the ground, or lying down, resting. Some sharpened weapons, and there were muttered conversations here and there; an occasional growl and spate of curses and raised voices marked the point when orcish tempers took hold and ended a talk.

Some little distance up the ranks, a knot of orcs stood muttering in their own harsh tongue, and a few emphatic gestures seemed to tell of a heated and serious discussion. __I wonder, would it be too much to hope that they'd just kill themselves? Start a big fight and do all my job for me?__ For it was unquestionably his job to find a way out of this for the Ring-bearer. Unfortunately, nothing came to him, and Sam spared a moment to wish he had Boromir's or Aragorn's advice on how to plan an escape. That neither Boromir nor Aragorn would have found escape a likely possibility, were their positions reversed, did not occur to him. His mind had fixed on one idea, and refused to leave it: Frodo must not be brought to Mordor in the company of orcs. For that matter, the orcs must never know what a prize they had, and Sam only hoped that the orders about spoiling would be scrupulously observed. For what if, as the orcs pawed Frodo, they should come across the Ring? Surely one of these fell creatures would never resist the lure, orders or not.

__And what are you going to do about that, Sam Gamgee?__ he asked himself, desperately seeking an answer. __What if that fit comes over him again, and he gives himself away? Or rather, if the Ring gives him away? Whichever, it doesn't much matter, he'll be just as dead. And I can't bear that! But what to do?__

Just then, a sharp cry caught his attention, rising to a pitiful, sobbing scream as the circle of orcs laughed harshly. Sam felt his heart hammer in his breast at the noise. "And now th'other one's up as well. Ha! A nice brace of rats, they are!" one of the orcs proclaimed loudly, getting laughter, and a few growled complaints from some of his more weary fellows. The jeering orc leaned down, his bulk obscuring his hands, but shortly thereafter, there came more cries, and Sam gritted his teeth as he sat up.

"Hi there! You leave him alone!" he shouted hoarsely. Heads turned towards him, and eyes luminous with ill-intention fastened on him. __All or nothing, Sam__ , he told himself, lifting his chin defiantly. "That's right, you heard me! Don't you touch him!"

"The rat squeaks too much," one of the orcs said after a moment, and grinned toothily. "Can't you lot keep your squeaker quiet?" he demanded of those sitting or lying about Sam.

"Then keep yours from squalling, Urdúk! Some of us want a bit of sleep around here. Not like we didn't cross the stinking mountains, too, you know," one of the orcs from nearby retorted.

Nevertheless, though, he turned to Sam with a scowl, and with a suddenness that stunned the hobbit, struck and cuffed Sam viciously across the face, knocking him back to the ground with casual irritation. "And you keep quiet or else I'll take it out of your hide, rat."

"And if you lay a hand on him without my knowledge, I'll take it out of your hide with interest," snarled Grishnákh's voice just then, and the orcs seemed to freeze for a moment. The orc captain glared about at all and sundry, then continued. "Remember that we deliver these lads in speaking condition to the Master of the Gates. I don't want any accidents on the way. And as for you," Grishnákh's head swiveled towards Sam, who had not moved since being struck, "don't worry, there's a lot of things that can be done that'll leave you able to talk that you won't much like. By the time you see the Black Gate, you'll know a few of them." Having delivered that threat, Grishnákh stalked onward, leaving Sam with a knot of dread in his stomach.

***

            Frodo lay panting on his side, dazed and not quite able to grasp what was happening about him. He was aware of harsh voices, and one in particular, and his face hurt dully where once claws had grasped and shaken him. But it seemed that he could not quite piece it all together. Or else he did not want to. Or else.... Frodo shivered at the thought of that 'else.' Once Sam had stabbed that orc, Frodo had found himself dashing for cover, his legs moving of their own accord, it had seemed, for he had been wandering still in a valley of desire... desire to disappear. The Ring had filled his mind, seeming wreathed in flame, taunting, tempting, promising salvation if only he would put it on... put the Ring on....

He could not recall at what point he had stopped and torn the chain from round his neck, panting, knowing that he had only a few minutes, perhaps, left to him ere the orcs found him. He knew not what power had put the idea in his head, but he had pulled out a knife and a bandage that were near the top of his pack and flung himself down under what cover the nearest bush could offer. For he had known that he could not outrun the orcs, and now that they had found his trail, he would not be able to escape. And if he could not escape, then they would surely search him, or else some 'accident' would happen, as it had at the Prancing Pony. And that would be the end. Fear had driven him, and he would never know how he had managed the task so quickly, with so little hesitation, but he had even had time to try to run a bit further, for all the good that had done.

So now, as he lay there on the ground, he whimpered to himself, and his left arm seemed to throb and burn, as if the fires of Mt. Doom writhed in his veins. An agony of heat to complement the earlier agony of ice, and he might have laughed that it was always his left arm, but at the moment, he could scarcely manage the demands of consciousness. He had awakened screaming ere ever the orcs had touched him, and now that he had managed to swallow his cries, he was not certain that he would ever be able to bring himself to open his mouth again.

__A Elbereth, it burns! It burns!__ Frodo was shaking now, lips peeling back from his teeth as he fought to hold his sobs in. The orcs were laughing now, he thought, or perhaps they were arguing; he could not tell, could not make himself pick out the words, as if in losing his own tongue, he had lost all power of speaking and understanding. __There are just the words in my head... and my memory of other times. But that is fading... Elbereth, it is fading so swiftly!_ _ Frodo groaned, unable to help himself, and an orc kicked him in the stomach. Frodo curled up instantly into a ball, and for once was grateful to the foul, rotting slime, for that at least felt cool. __But it makes the heat of it seem worse!__

            As he sank further from the waking world, visions formed aimlessly in his mind, hazy memories of Rivendell and the Shire pierced by sudden flashes of clarity: the curl of smoke wafting up from Gandalf's pipe; Boromir's fingers wandering the length of the horn of Gondor in a familiar, worried caress; the glint of sun off of Legolas' hair; trees in autumn; Galadriel's eyes; Aragorn's moon-backed silhouette as the Ranger stood watch; water. The water stayed with him, and those brief memories seemed adrift in it without rhyme or reason. Frodo struggled against the tide, drowning, as a hissing voice cackled, "Alive without breath, as cold as death... alive without breath, as cold as death...." Over and over the words repeated, but the heat in the center of his body would not abate, was weighing him down, driving him mad with pain.

"Alive without breath...." — _ _Pippin's face was milk-pale on Weathertop__ —

"As cold as death...." — _ _two lovers twined about each other on a hilltop in Lórien, and one of them cried out with a mortal breath__ —

"Never thirsty, ever drinking..."— _an elven boat floated down a gleaming river—_

"All in mail...." — _ _the broken bridge dwindled above him as the darkness of the chasm swallowed the fires Khazad-dûm__ —

"Never clinking...." — _ _a shiver ran up the haft of the ax, and then the tree seemed to shriek as it swept downwards_ —_

__Stop! Stop! Stop! I never saw any of it—these are not even my memories! Stop, or I shall go mad!__ A fish breached the surface of Anduin and in its last agony spit out a golden trinket that slipped down through the waters to nestle in the mud, and wait. __Stop!_ _

"Mr. Frodo, sir? Oh please, listen to me, just listen to me a moment, and open your eyes!" Frodo blinked, gasping, and Sam's worried, dirt-streaked and bruised face stared back at him.

"Sam!" Frodo croaked hoarsely, his voice barely a whisper. To his horror, he could feel tears stinging his eyes, threatening to slip down his cheeks.

"Don't worry, Mr. Frodo, it was naught but a nightmare. Here now, I'd offer a shoulder, but I don't know as we can move that much. Just lie still a moment, and try to keep quiet. I'll talk a bit, but those nasty brutes are quick with a slap or worse if we're not careful," Sam murmured. "Do you know where you are, Mr. Frodo?"

"I... I don't remember. There were orcs in the marshes," Frodo replied weakly after a few moments, and closed his eyes again. His left arm felt leaden—molten, even, throbbing painfully, but the fires seemed contained for the moment. They did not lick outward to consume him and his mind, but only smoldered now. Almost, he could feel relief that it was merely his arm that pained him so.

"Aye, there were. I'd hoped you'd got away!" Sam's voice sounded so chagrined, so close to tears that Frodo made himself open his eyes again. The other's expression spoke eloquently of dashed hopes and self-accusation for the failure.

"No... no, Sam, do not blame yourself. I just wasn't fast enough," Frodo sighed in response, and left it at that.

"Well, at least they've got us together now. The first day, or night, rather, I suppose, they kept us separate. But don't you worry, I'll stay with you, Mr. Frodo. We'll make it." __To where?__ Frodo felt like asking bitterly, but swallowed the urge. What point in scorning what little comfort Sam had to offer, even if they both knew that it was a vain hope? "The good thing is, that this here orc troop seems like it's a small one. I think they lost some after Parth Galen."

"Parth Galen? These are the same orcs?"

"Seems like it, from what I've heard. A part of that group, at any rate, though they must've left the others behind, and they seem to've been running from their own for awhile. Went over the Emyn Muil like us, but they must've found another way. Fellow named Grishnákh seems to be in charge, and he's a mean one, even for an orc, or so I fancy," Sam said, voice sinking to an even lower whisper. "And there's the bad news—this lot got their orders from a Nazgûl. They're supposed to take halflings to the master of the gates, whatever that means."

"Morannon," Frodo murmured faintly, feeling cold sweat spring up instantly.

"I'll try my best, Mr. Frodo, but I'm not very good at planning things like this," Sam sighed, and Frodo was tempted to laugh. Planning things like this... planning an escape? The notion was absurd, and Frodo felt a certain admiration for Sam's stalwart attempts to bolster his spirits, but....

__But!__ As Frodo stared, speechless, at Sam, he realized something: Sam was not jeseting. He was in deadly earnest—he believed that it could be done. That it had to be done (which Frodo certainly did not dispute) and that he could do it. _ _Hobbits really are amazing creatures. You can learn all that there is to know about their ways in a month, and yet after a hundred years they can still surprise you at a pinch,__ he thought, marveling. _ _But no_ , _he realized, as murky recollection surrendered a sudden bit of clarity to him, _ _that was Gandalf who said that_._ And perhaps the old wizard had been correct. _ _Well... it cannot hurt to let him keep that illusion, after all_ , _Frodo decided. __Poor Sam!__

"All right my rats, up we go and off we get!" An orc loomed up and grabbed each of the hobbits by the collar, dragging them to their feet. "Run, or else you'll only wish we'd skinned you alive!" They were shoved forward, and Frodo gasped as he stumbled against Sam, jarring his left arm. "Move it!" __Move! Move!_ _ he ordered his legs, and haltingly, staggeringly, he began to run, and the fire began to spread again.

***

            Sam was worried. He had every right to be, but he was __worried_._ Something was wrong with Frodo, that seemed plain. The Ring had been wearing him down since Moria and before, most likely, but it had seemed a slow decline, one that Frodo had been able to manage, to control somewhat. __But now he seems like he's sleep-walking_ ,_ Sam thought fearfully. Frodo staggered along at his side, eyes wide and staring and glazed, heedless, it seemed of his surroundings, and Sam knew that he was in pain. The scratches and exhaustion, stench and fear aside, Frodo was in agony. And Sam had no least idea how to help him. __It's not injury as far as I can see_ ,_ he thought, furiously searching his memory, cataloguing each bump and scrape and hardship they had endured. __And much though I don't want to say it, these orcs have been uncommonly careful round us. I guess I would be, too, if I had to answer to a Nazgûl. I've never seen him like this, though, not since Weathertop and I—__

            Weathertop. Wordless insight struck so hard that Sam tripped and pitched forward with an __oomf!__ as he hit the ground. With a snarl, a nearby orc reached down and grabbed him by the hair, dragging him as he scrambled for his footing. He had only barely regained it, however, when— _ _oh glory and trumpets!__ —a halt was finally called. Panting painfully, Sam sank down to the ground again, head bowed as he let the blood rush to his face. Beside him, Frodo lay collapsed and shivering fit to break. And as he gasped for breath, Sam could hear little moans catching in the back of the other's throat. Sam shook his head sharply, trying to clear it, and frowned as he gazed down at Frodo. __Weathertop. Not since Weathertop_ ,_ he thought, feeling a chill work its way into his heart. __But there's no Nazgûl here, and surely Lord Elrond cured him. He was healed! They took the splinter out.__

            Perplexed, caught between ignorance and bone-deep certainty that what ailed Frodo must surely be similar to the injury done him at Weathertop, Sam chewed on his lip, frowning down at his friend. And so he did not see the orcish fist until it connected with his ear, and Sam gasped as he tasted blood. "The master wants a word with you, he does, but Grishnákh said you'd be learning a few things on this little trip, my dears," sneered an orc, and there was much laughter and agreement as the orcs crowded round. Sam dazedly got to his knees, eyes watering, and he watched as an orc advanced with a drawn knife. __Frodo!__ For Frodo still lay exactly as he had, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. Setting the point against Frodo's collar, the orc began to cut slowly through the fabric, but after a moment, he frowned and paused.

"Gar, now, what's this? What do you know, lads! I ain't seen a hide worth more than this one's!" Sam closed his eyes, as the murmur of orcish interest grew louder, climaxing in a series of gasps and muttered orcish exclamations.

"And what do you think you're doing?" came a voice.

"Taking it off of him. What's it look like, you clod-brained mule?"

"Grishnákh said no spoiling!"

"Ain't spoiling if it's company property. Heh, we can turn it over in Lúgburz. Eh? Keep it right safe 'til then."

"Oh, I'm sure you will! I wouldn't trust you with a sack of dung, Rakûsh!"

"You were the one reaching for that bit of elvish jewelry!" It looked as though a fight would **begin** on the spot, and Sam held his breath. But just then, Grishnákh intervened.

"Enough! Rakûsh, bring them with you."

"Why?" Rakûsh snarled resentfully, clearly displeased to have his 'fun' spoiled. Grishnákh stared at him flatly for a moment, and then, with a suddenness that shocked Sam, struck. Dark blood sprayed, and Rakûsh staggered back, clutching at his throat. He collapsed back into the crowd, which parted to let him fall, and after but a few moments, lay still.

"Urdúk, bring the halflings with you and follow me. The rest of you, rest now, for you'll not get any tomorrow." Urdúk, growling but apparently cowed by that demonstration, stepped forward and caught Frodo and Sam up, one under each arm, and stomped after his captain. Muttering, the other orcs began to settle down. Grishnákh led them a ways away from the other orcs, though not so far that he could not keep an eye and an ear on them, and then indicated that Urdúk should set them down. "Tie their legs. I don't want them getting it into their heads to run. For you'd not get far, my dear halflings, but tomorrow brings another long run," Grishnákh added, grinning in such a way that Sam felt rather ill.

And while Urdúk began tying Sam up, Grishnákh set about getting the mail shirt off of Frodo. Sam held his breath, uncertain what he was going to do once Grishnákh discovered the Ring on its chain, but he knew he would have to do something. _ _I may not live to regret it, but I have to try!__ Sam hissed as Urdúk pulled the bonds painfully tight, but otherwise, his attention remained focused on Grishnákh, who had untied Frodo's hands and was working the mail off with rough haste. Frodo moaned a little, and began to twitch, seeming to begin to come out of his stupor. __Here it comes.__ Sam held his breath, tensing for he knew not what action, waiting for that gasp that would tell of the discovery....

            But it never happened. There was no gasp, no sudden immobility. Grishnákh simply slung the _mithril_ shirt over his shoulder along with Frodo's cloak, and, after patting the hobbit down with ruthless efficiency, moved away to begin lighting a fire while Urdúk came around to redo Frodo's bindings. As the orc knelt behind him and began to wrap rope about Frodo's wrists, Sam had a clear view of his friend, and shock rippled through him. Frodo's pale chest heaved still from their painfully swift journey, but his neck was bare. There was no chain, no ring, nothing. Only a few bruises here and there, and a bloodied bandage tied off tightly about his left upper arm.

The Ring had disappeared!

* * *

"Alive without breath, as cold as death...." etc., from "Riddles in the Dark" in "The Hobbit."

" Hobbits really are amazing creatures. You can learn all that there is to know about their ways in a month, and yet after a hundred years they can still surprise you at a pinch." FOTR, p. 61, "The Shadow of the Past."


	25. Upon the Edge of Ruin

            Sam could not believe his eyes. He frankly gaped, and it was a lucky thing that Urdúk was busy with tying Frodo's hands, and that Grishnákh was busy with the fire, else they might well have wondered at his astonishment. Just in time, though Sam shut his mouth and hunched his shoulders, closing his eyes as he tried to order his thoughts. The Ring was not on its chain; there was not even a chain about Frodo's neck any more. His first, horrified thought had been that the Ring had somehow conspired to leave Frodo, just as it had Isildur and Gollum, if he'd understood everything aright in the council. But then realization had set in, and Sam found himself floundering in the face of the obvious truth. It was all too clear that Frodo had been right to hide the Ring as he had, for there was no other choice, but Sam was desperately frightened now on his master's behalf.

__That Morgul-knife was bad enough, but now It's in him, and who knows what that might do? Even if It wasn't evil, that's a dangerous thing, to get something metal stuck in a body._ _ He remembered an evening in the Green Dragon, when Ted Sandyman had held everyone enthralled, as he had told (with what Sam had then considered far too much glee, which opinion had only been strengthened since leaving the Shire) about a cousin of his that'd stepped on an old nail. A piece had got stuck, and infection had set in of the worst sort. __But that was an accident. How did Frodo do it, then, on purpose?_ _ Sam wondered, furtively cracking his eyes open to watch him. __He would have had to cut in and–__

He couldn't make himself think it all the way through, or he was going to make himself sick. Even worse, though, was the thought of what the orcs might do. __This Grishnákh now, he knows something, and I don't like it. What's he want with us now, other than to hand us over to the Dark Lord like prized doves?_ _ Sam wondered, fearfully. He tilted his head back slightly to peer at the orc-captain from beneath his eyelashes. The goblin was nursing a small fire to life now, the red glow casting shadows on his face, lending a feverish gleam to his dark, glowering eyes. Urdúk was hovering nearby, clearly uncertain what to do next. Given what had happened to Rakûsh, Sam supposed he couldn't blame him. __Wouldn't want to sneeze at the wrong time, if I was an orc in this band_ ,_ Sam thought. __Not to worry about that now, Sam, what are you going to do when that big brute looks your way?_ _

It was cold, lying on the damp earth, but Sam was sweating already out of sheer fright. A little ways away, Frodo was stirring a bit more, and when he moaned, Sam could not help craning his neck a bit for a better look. But almost as quickly, Frodo quieted again. Urdúk simply scowled, but said nothing, and made no move towards either hobbit. As Sam closed his eyes once more, the dreadful silence stretched out painfully, broken only by the sound of Grishnákh snapping twigs to feed the fire. Sam's imagination heard bones cracking, as thoughts of Gimli and ax-heads flitted through his mind. At last, though, "Untie that bandage, Urdúk. Use it to gag him, then leave them with me." A pause. "Now!"

Muttering, the other orc stepped forward and stooped to obey. Frodo sucked in a breath–either from Urdúk's ungentle tugging on the bandage or else for fear of discovery, Sam could not tell which it was. His own breath was coming fast and shallow now, and he swallowed hard. __What do I do?_ _ There were some things a good Shire lad wasn't supposed to know about, and Sam would've been quite content to live out his life never having come closer to a war than Mr. Bilbo's tales could bring him. He had been grateful, in a way, that the warriors among the Fellowship had seemed to hold a similar opinion about what hobbits ought to know, and had been generally discreet about all the terrible things that they had seen and heard tell of.

But even so, the gaps in their speech, the silences in conversations held when the watches were on, and everyone was supposed to be asleep, except that sometimes it didn't happen that way–Sam had come to have a hazy conception through them of what the others had seen, of what they had decided to spare him and the other hobbits, even in the retelling. __And now it doesn't matter at all. I don't want to be one of the ones who has those kinds of talks!_ _ But he had to look after his master, and so he made himself look at him, and only at him. Frodo was quite alert now, and his eyes were wide with fear as Urdúk hurriedly tied off the gag and then stomped away to rejoin the others.

"Well, my hobbits," Grishnákh's voice fairly dripped malice, "to have come all this way only to be lost in the mists is a hard end. How fortunate that we found you!" The orc came to squat at Frodo's head, hands clasped behind himself as he leaned forward to stare at his captive. After a moment, Grishnákh continued, "Yess... very fortunate, for you seem quite unable to take care of yourselves." A clawed hand darted down to grasp Frodo's left arm and squeeze hard. A muffled cry got past the gag, and Sam bit his lip hard. "A nasty cut, this. You should take better care, or all the __mithril__ in Middle-earth won't save you. And it hasn't!"

He chuckled nastily, then, at his own joke, and Sam felt his lip curl in disgust. "Don't worry, little hobbit, I do have a mind to keep you in one piece. Something like this," and the goblin gripped harder now, twisting, and causing Frodo to moan and writhe, as blood ran from between Grishnákh's claws, "could be dangerous to you. So, take your medicine." And from behind his back he brought a knife, and Sam gasped. But before he could protest, the Grishnákh touched the metal to Frodo's flesh, and it hissed as flesh burned.

__No wonder he wanted that fire!_ _ Sam's eyes went wide as saucers, and he was quaking with the effort not to turn away. All he could think was, _ _Faint! Swoon, Mr. Frodo, and let it be over!_ _ The scent of burnt flesh and blood had him choking on bile, and feeling rather dizzy himself, but at least after a little while, Frodo's cloth-muffled cries ceased all in an instant as he went limp and senseless once more. Sam let his chin droop towards his chest as he curled up a bit more, breathing hard. Grishnákh, however, continued to talk just loudly enough to make himself heard over the jeers–"Can't take his medicine!" "Doesn't know what's good for him!" "We shall have some fun later!"–and laughter of his followers that wafted across the distance between them. "Saruman and his filthy white badges may have got the other two, but let him keep them," he grated harshly. "I think me I've the real prize. Two hobbits alone on this side of the river–now what could they be up to, eh?" Grishnákh demanded, pulling the gag down, though naturally, he received no answer. "What indeed! Ha!"

There came the sound of armor creaking and scraping as the orc shifted positions, and then suddenly, Sam's chin was caught in a slick, yet vice-like grip and forced upward. "Yes," the goblin hissed softly at him, "you ran away from the others. And I know why. Oh yes. But one question tonight: what shall you do when you face the Questioner, little halfling?" The goblin tapped the hot blade against his right cheek–just a quick touch, as if to prompt an erring child to answer. Sam yelped involuntarily, and Grishnákh chuckled contemptuously at that, then shoved him a way suddenly, as if disgusted. Eyes watering, Sam stared up at him, panting, as the orc murmured softly, "Pathetic fool! Little people should not meddle in affairs that are too big for them."

And with that, Grishnákh stood, leaving Sam trembling and sweating and speechless on the ground. The orc glanced consideringly at each of his prisoners, and said in as mild a voice as ever an orc used, "We will speak again, when we can, until we reach the Black Gate. And believe me, my little ones, that is nothing–you will only wish you had more answers for the Questioner than you have for me."

Having made that threat, Grishnákh wandered back to the fire, leaving Sam and Frodo alone to ponder their fate. Or rather, Sam pondered it–Frodo remained sunk in oblivion, and although it was Sam's dearest desire at the moment to join him there, the throbbing pain of his right cheek would not allow him to rest. __'Til we reach the Black Gate? And how long will that take? Not long enough, I don't doubt it,_ _ Sam thought, and could scarcely believe he could think that way about the company of orcs. But the Questioner, and the Dark Tower, and the Great Eye....

Sam shuddered. There had to be a way out. There had to be, and Sam clung to that as, after awhile, even the painfully cauterized cut could not keep him from dropping off into a stupor. __We just have to hold on long enough. And I'll think of something, Mr. Frodo, I promise I will!_ _ With that, he sank into an uneasy rest, and memories of a magic mirror's visions haunted his dreams.

***

            As the fog rose up again in the late afternoon, Grishnákh roused the company. "We run now, and continue on 'til dawn." And such had been the stare he had leveled at them that no one had complained of the watery sunlight that hung diffuse in the mist. Frodo had staggered to his feet and given Sam a look that'd just about broken his heart before all expression had leeched from his face with the command to run. Grishnákh had his whip out today, and Sam flinched whenever it whistled past his head. Occasionally, it would lick across his back if he began to slow, and Sam would gasp and redouble his efforts. The hours dragged along with the miles, and when Sam could bear it no longer, he collapsed and simply allowed himself to be dragged along, slung from orc to orc like a sack of potatoes as his porters wearied of carrying him. What Frodo endured, he refused to consider, and concentrated on the blackness that promised escape from the world, even if only for a little while.

            The feeling of the earth rising up to slap him pulled Sam back to the gloomy waking world, but to his surprise, he did not open his eyes to misty dawnlight. Instead, as he craned his neck skywards, he blinked up at a bright gibbous moon in a clear, dark sky. All about him was the sound of armor shifting, and muttered orcish, growls and hoots and the overpowering scent of sweat and filth. __Why have we stopped?__ Sam wondered, and wondered if there were any way to take advantage of this unexpected pause. "Sam?" a voice whispered brokenly from behind him, and Sam caught his breath.

            "Mr. Frodo?"

            There was an ominous pause, and for a moment Sam thought perhaps the other had swooned again. But then, hoarsely, "What's happening?"

            "I don't rightly know, sir. I didn't wake up 'til they tossed me down here and–"

            "Quiet, slugs!" an orc snarled in a hateful undertone, and both hobbits flinched as if from a blow. But none descended just yet, and so they relaxed, though they spoke no more. __He sounds so weak_ ,_ Sam worried, his attention sliding back immediately to Frodo. __Like he's got nothing left in him anymore. These orcs will run him to death before he ever reaches Mordor!_ _ With an effort, Sam managed to lift his head off the ground and look around a bit. The orcs were simply standing and waiting, and none seemed to be looking in his direction, so he wriggled and writhed 'til he managed to turn over onto his other side.

His master was facing away from him, and all Sam could see was his back and bound hands, and the scratch marks on the back of his neck from ungentle handling. Frodo was trembling, too, as if he were freezing, which he might well be, deprived of his shirt, and Sam bit his lip. After so long in that swamp and among orcs, he was fairly convinced he would never be able to smell anything ever again, but he thought he detected just the faintest odor of infection, what with his nose almost pressed up against Frodo's back. Someone had thought to rebandage the wound, but it was a filthy rag of a cloth. Probably it was little more than a strip off of someone's cloak or tunic. After a cautery done more to hurt Frodo than to help him, Sam was certain that this would only make things worse.

__What if he's truly ill? Would Grishnákh stop? He wants him to live, doesn't he?__ But if Sam said a word, Grishnákh might well pay attention to Frodo, and to the injury. And that was dangerous, for then he might well somehow find the Ring. __But then do I say something and try to save him, or nothing, and let this go on, even if it kills him? Mercy!_ _ Sam blinked hard, eyes stinging. He was afraid to weep in front of the orcs, but it was beginning to sink in that even escaping might not be the answer. He might find a way out, only to have Frodo die of his wound and Grishnákh's cruel treatment. His own back hurt from the whip's bite, and Frodo's back was torn where he had been caught by the lash as well. If Sam did not find a way out... he __had__ to, but if he did not, then could he stand to simply let his master die all for the sake of keeping the Ring out of orcish claws? _ _But if I don't, the others will die instead. Merry and Pippin, and all of them, and everyone at home in the Shire_ ,_ he reminded himself. __But they aren't here, and Frodo is!_ _

Just at that moment, Sam heard Grishnákh saying something to the others in his own harsh-sounding tongue. __What's this now?_ _ he wondered, watching in astonishment as several orcs loped off north-east. The orc-captain said a word and waved a hand at the rest of his company. Obedient to his apparent command, the others, with much grumbling and sighing, sank down to the earth to wait. Grishnákh remained standing, arms folded across his chest. For a time, he gazed after the departed orcs, stiff and fairly bristling with an odd, angry defiance. _ _What's wrong enough to upset an orc?__ Sam wondered, fearfully. Perhaps Grishnákh felt his gaze, for malevolent eyes turned towards him, and Sam fought the urge to just put his head down and hide behind Frodo. Grishnákh did not blink, though he did turn fully, abandoning the view of the darkened plain to stare at the hobbits with a brooding, hooded look that sent chills down Sam's back. But he did not move to touch them, nor did he speak, and somehow, Sam found this more unnerving than threats.

After awhile, he did let his head sink back down to the earth, let the throb of his cheek blend with the other pains as he closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the back of Frodo's neck.

Time passed. Everything seemed deathly still upon the plain, for even the orcs were quiet. What they waited for, Sam could not imagine, and he had quickly ceased to rack his brains over the band that Grishnákh had sent away. He could not imagine why the orcs wasted the night, although he was certainly in no hurry to reach the Black Gate. Better to rest for a bit, as much as he could, for he would need it. Frodo's skin against his brow was feverishly hot, and heavens help him if he knew what he would do about that. __First things first, or they wouldn't be first, as the Gaffer says. I've got to get him away from these brutes. There must be some chance, and I need both my eyes open and looking if I'm to find it,__ Sam thought, wishing his eyelids didn't feel like lead weights. And that his back didn't burn. And that his feet and legs didn't ache so....

Sam did not know how he managed to fall asleep, frightened and hurt as he was, but the next thing he knew, he woke to the sight of Grishnákh as the orc grabbed him by the chin and forced a vial between his teeth. Something hot and bitter flowed down his throat, and Sam spluttered, coughing, spraying his captor with a mouthful. Grishnákh cursed but forced another draught down his throat, and then snarled, "On your feet, vermin–the sun has not come up yet!"

Temples throbbing, senses reeling, Sam dizzily obeyed, and found, to his astonishment, that he felt steadier. His limbs were no longer leaden, but nearly feverish, and he felt stronger. __What was that?__ Beside him, Frodo, too, managed to climb to his feet, though he swayed a little. Yet a light was in his eyes, at least, and Sam made himself think that it wasn't the glow of sickness. Orders were shouted, and once again, they were running. But though Sam could not see much over the heads of his captors, and had not a clear sense of where they were going in any case, as he glanced left at Frodo, he caught a precious glimpse of the land about them through a gap in the ranks. Brief it was–too brief for Sam to do more than notice it ere the orcs closed up the circle once again–but where the moon shone down, it was bright, illuminating the plain. And he could see clearly in that one instant that the mountains no longer lay before them, but to the left.

They had turned West.

***

            Dawn came soon, and when it did, all took advantage of it to rest, and well that they did, for Grishnákh was in a foul temper, pushing his company hard enough that even among the orcs, complaints rose of a particularly surly and nasty sort. In fact, before they had set out the next evening, there had been two more dead orcs, victims of a quarrel which Grishnákh had won. What the matter had been, had been unclear, for none of the vicious exchanges had been in the Common Speech, and Sam was not sure he wanted to even guess what the matter was. Not when Grishnákh had turned such a look on him and Frodo afterwards as had nearly frozen Sam's blood with fear. There had been no time to think on what it might have meant, for the orc-captain had ordered them all to stand and make ready. Another draught of the foul liquor had been forced down Sam's throat and Frodo's, and then the dread command had come, the one word that Sam now knew of orcish–" _ _Brathak_!_ "–and they had begun to run again.

There was one thing to be said for orcish draughts, though, and that was that they did keep a body from running blind and half-witless, and so Sam, after awhile and in spite of himself, began to notice the changes in the land. Since leaving the meres behind, the ground had grown less soggy, and heath had replaced the marsh reeds and tussocks, and here and there a stunted tree or bush would rise up above the plain. Southwest stood a low, rocky rise, seeming a grey and mournful sentinel that stared across the gap at the fanged heights of the Ephel Dúath. Around its easternmost spur they bent their course by hours, passing through a narrow neck of land, and for a time, the ground was hard and stony, a torment to Sam's aching feet before at last the land began to slope gently towards a forest.

And such a forest! Tall and silent stood the trees in the light of the waning moon, and Sam felt a shiver work its way down his back that, for a wonder, had naught to do with the cold or fear. It was nearly dawn by the time they reached it, the orcs surging ahead, eager to reach the shade, as the eastern sky began to grow bright. The hobbits, in a last effort, sprinted along with them, Frodo twice colliding with orcs who swatted him aside. But somehow he kept to his feet until the company came to a halt, at which point he simply dropped and lay like a dead thing, eyes wide and staring, seeming sightless. Sam, gazing at him, was irresistibly reminded of watching Legolas sleep, except he had never known the Elf to have nightmares. __But if ever an Elf could have them, I think this might be what he'd look like to me,__ Sam thought fearfully, panting for breath.

            "Eat!" snarled an orc just then, fairly flinging food in Sam's face. It was dark enough that it was hard to tell what he had been given, and the hobbit decided that that was likely for the best, as he snapped after it like a starveling pup, since no one had deemed it wise to untie his hands from behind his back. Frodo, however, did not move, and after only a few bites, Sam decided it was not worth rousing him for a feast only flies might appreciate. _ _Ugh, but I don't ever want to know what it was!_ _ he decided, wishing even for the liquor to wash the taste out of his mouth. All around him in the darkness beneath the oaks–for oaks they were, now that Sam had a chance to stare at them closely–the orcs were settling, snarling at each other now and again as they ate or sharpened weapons. There was a murderous undercurrent in their mutterings today that even Sam recognized, and he wondered again what it might mean. __Why did we change directions in the middle of the night? Where are we going now?__ Sam did not know, but he thought that perhaps it was not unhopeful that the orcs seemed on edge.

            Frodo whimpered just then, jerking as if caught in a nightmare, and a chorus of soft hisses greeted this, as one of the orcs reached out and clapped a hand over Frodo's mouth. Sam sat up straighter at that and opened his mouth to protest, but the orc turned on him.

"Mind your manners, rat! Bad enough we missed our talk with the Nazgûl gettin' out of Horse Country, but we won't be spitted for your squeaking, either!" he rumbled in a low voice. Sam shut his mouth with an audible click of his teeth, and as Frodo quieted again, the orc released the hobbit and turned his attention back to his own meal.

__Nazgûl? Meeting with Nazgûl?_ _ Of a sudden, it was all very clear to Sam what had happened. __They're running away!_ _ he thought, brow furrowing as he put together the pieces. __They didn't meet the Nazgûl coming out of the Horse Country... they didn't meet him because they didn't have anything to show for it._ _ That's __what was meant before, that these had stuck with old Grishnákh coming over the mountains. They failed, and now they're afraid to go home. Those orcs must've been scouts last night and they must've brought news that Grishnákh didn't like, so he turned southwest instead of going home through the front gate, where everyone must know he ran away empty-handed. But where's the back door then, that he means to take us through? And where are we?_ _ Sam wondered. Certainly, this land seemed a better one than the one they had left, though it was still under the mountains that fenced Mordor. _ _Maybe we're close to Gondor by now. Isn't that a thought?_ _ But what he would do with it, Sam did not know yet. Weary as he was, he simply lay down beside Frodo let himself fall asleep, and he hoped that neither he nor Frodo would dream.

But Frodo was not asleep. Not really, though he was not truly awake, either. He was Between, unable fully to escape either his dreams or the living nightmare of the march. Yet he knew of the quarrels and troubles of the orcs, and was more certain than Sam, even, of the cause of their perturbation, for he could feel it, too. Even by night–perhaps especially by night–when the horror of a journey had overwhelmed even the potent orc-draught, he had been aware of a burning regard that beat now against the back of his neck, rather than upon his face, and with each stride, it had receded a little, but never enough for its intensity but mounted. Somehow, even in his present stupor, he knew that the orcs were aware of it as well, and that it spurred them onward, even as it fueled their conflicts.That was why the undercurrent in the company that Sam had remarked was so vicious, and a sense of disaster pricked now at Frodo's feverish senses, manifesting almost as an itch between his shoulders that he longed to scratch... or to inflame.

For Grishnákh stood silent watch today, as he had yesterday, but his attention slithered back and forth between the perils of an unfriendly land and his own company. And more and more often, his gaze would touch upon the hobbits, while the heat of that invisible gaze grew worse by the hour, sending waves of distress through the ranks. _ _They need His gaze to stand up and to lie down, to come and to go, and so they are afraid now, for their own desires are not strong enough to oppose his. Not, and live,_ _ Frodo thought dully, though his mind continued to turn out words with startling clarity despite the fever and exhaustion. __Grishnákh will drive them on nonetheless–he is stronger than the others, but also the more desperate for that! So deep in His will that he desires what He desires... and yet not deeply enough to be trusted for that very reason.__

How the orc-captain intended to move his increasingly fractious lot into Mordor in one piece without losing his precious prisoners, Frodo did not know, and he was nearly too exhausted to care. __Yet I cannot rest. Why can I not rest?_ _ Perhaps it was merely the effect of the draughts Grishnákh kept forcing on him and Sam, but it seemed that no matter how weary he was, no matter how weak from hunger and abuse, his mind could not cease to think, denying him the comfort of oblivion. And so he lay, and his mind kept turning over all that came within its reach, unfettered by the demands of his protesting body, from which he felt oddly divorced. __And yet also trapped in it. It burns so, still!__ Fire was at the core of him, and all else in him was chill, cold, dead. Even Sam's presence at his back felt icy today. Everything felt as ice save for It and for the call of Its Master....

            And save for Grishnákh, whose burning gaze, whenever it fell upon him, made his skin tingle, and all his hairs stand on end. And if reason could give a hundred excuses why that might be so, none touched upon the one that underlay the rest, silent as bedrock, yet increasingly present to the hobbit's mind. Frodo found himself watching the orc. Sometimes Grishnákh seemed to feel him staring, and would turn to stare back. It had not been thus yesterday, Frodo thought. But now, as another day wore on towards noon, the orc turned more and more often, and Frodo's heart sped each time, 'til he could scarcely see for the pounding of blood in his temples, and the golden image that dazzled and dizzied his waking sight. __For It grows upon the mind,__ said a voice in his head, one that might have been Gandalf's from some long ago day. __The Ring gives power according to the measure of each possessor. Do not make a trial of your strength, Frodo!__ But It __was__ growing upon his mind of Its own accord, and had been for long. Now, watered and nourished by Grishnákh's stares and the will that beat against his neck from that __other__ gaze–Frodo could _see_ the gold in the goblin's eyes, and he knew that It called to the other. __Ash nazg... ash nazg_...._ That __he__ called to him.

__I must not,_ _ a part of Frodo thought, frightened. __I must not!_ _ Yet as the afternoon trickled slowly away beneath the oaks, Grishnákh drew him forth, again and again, to a silent contest of wills whenever their eyes met. And if Frodo did not always win, he did not always lose, either, and memories of a tent in Lothlórien came back starkly to mind. __It began thus with Boromir as well. So little a thing! I could__ make _ _him leave us, Sam and I–I could__ make _ _him take his band and go. I could__ make _ _him fall on his own sword, if I wished. I could do this. It is in my hands to do this....__

__

__What am I thinking?__ Frodo shivered, feeling the gooseflesh rise on his arms. __It is_ _ not _ _in my hands, 'tis the Ring that calls. It calls through_ _ me _ _now! How can I stop this? What can I do?__ To such questions, he could make no answers, but he feared the day when he would wake to Grishnákh's hands on him, for it seemed all too likely that the orc would strip him to the bones in his lust to find that which called to him. __And do I want him to?__ Frodo wondered, and could not muster the strength to be appalled as he gritted his teeth against the fire that spread outward once more from that band of gold....

            " _ _Hai! Tark-hai!__ " Frodo jerked, as commotion broke out all around, all at once.

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam yelled in his ear, apparently torn from his sleep, even as a wave of heat and malevolent triumph seemed to crash over and through Frodo, drowning out everything. For a few precious moments, he was blind and deaf, and gold seemed to sparkle in his sight, to sing in his ears as the old Dwarvish saying went, and he was struck dumb. A jolt ran through his body, and Frodo shook his head sharply, gasping as the world spun dizzily back into being, and then Frodo blinked to find himself staring at Sam across the width of an armored chest. He shivered, then, knowing full well that the moment had come, and he looked up into Grishnákh's blazing eyes. A moment they stared, but then Grishnákh tore his gaze away.

Above the cries of the orcs and the clash and clatter of steel-wrought death came the voices of Men, crying out, "Gondor! Gondor!", moving steadily round them as Grishnákh swore, then ducked and broke to the left, towards the mountains. __He will escape! Fool, he will escape and all will come to naught. Tell him to stop! Tell him to stop now!_ _ Make __him stop!__ But Frodo's throat was dry, and he could not speak, though Sam shouted once before the orc clapped a hand over each of their mouths. Sam continued to writhe, and at one point, Grishnákh cursed and seemed to stumble a bit. But he quickly recovered, barreling past two of his own lads, head down, knocking them aside like rag dolls. Whether they rose again, Frodo did not know, as the battle faded behind them somewhat, and with it, any hope of rescue.

__This is the End then_ ,_ he thought, and tried to steel himself for it, and so bleak were his thoughts that he did not notice that Grishnákh was limping until the orc lurched to a halt beneath a tree. Tossing the hobbits down, he snarled as he sank to the ground, reached down, and snapped the haft of an arrow that had pierced his leg.

            With a hiss, he threw the splintered bit of wood away and rounded on the hobbits so fiercely that both of them shrank back, and Frodo flinched as if from a blow. _ _Ash nazg durbatulûk–_ _No. No no no...._ _ "One of you has It," Grishnákh growled, eyes glowing, and Frodo swallowed, staring at him, glassy-eyed. __Ash nazg...._ _ The goblin's claws were restless, and little tremors ran up his arms as muscles twitched and trembled with the fever of lust. He reached for Frodo, but Sam pushed himself between them.

"If one of us had it, we'd've used It, don't you think?" Sam demanded, and Frodo blinked, astonished by the other's tone. Even Grishnákh paused, as Sam went on doggedly, voice rising as if he needed volume to overcome the fact that he, too, was shaking. "You and your lot run us half to death playing your filthy little games with us, and we just run along and take it. You don't think we'd have done something if we'd 'a had a way to stop it? Well? Isn't that what we'd have done? And wouldn't you have done something sooner, if we really had It?"

"You understand nothing." The orc's voice was flat as he stared at Sam, and Frodo closed his eyes before that dark-eyed stare. "Pathetic little fool, you do not begin to understand, for He is the way, the One, and His gaze is the light that drives us... and It is His strength, born of Him and bound to Him, and ever-beloved of Him. You understand nothing!" Grishnákh snarled then, and quick as lightning, a long arm darted out. Sam's cry was cut off as he was flung aside so hard the breath was knocked out of him, and he lay curled up and gasping for air.

The orc spared him not a second glance, but turned and advanced on Frodo, crawling forward as the hobbit tried vainly to wriggle back. But it hurt so to move, and the very weight of his flesh and bones seemed unbearable. __Ash nazg...._ _ Claws caught him, sinking into his skin, and Frodo let out a wordless cry. __I will not say it! I will not say it, I will not say it...!_ _ A hand encircled his left arm, squeezing hard enough to break the scar open again, and another cry was torn from Frodo. __NO!__

At that very moment, Grishnákh let out a roar, and Frodo choked and recoiled as slaver dripped hot on his face. The orc dropped him with such suddenness that Frodo had no time even to yell before the shock of earth met his spine and then faded. There came then the sound of something whistling through the air, followed by the crash of metal on metal. "Frodo!" Sam's voice reached him through the vertigo, cutting through deeper voices–Men's voices–and someone bent over him. Frodo struggled to open his eyes, and found himself staring up into too-familiar bright grey eyes framed by darkness.

"Boromir!" he muttered weakly, dismayed. And then, suddenly fierce: "You shall not have It!"

And then the world went dark.

* * *

Notes on Orcish/Black Speech: Ardalambion. Best site on the web for info on more than just Elvish. 'Brathak' is pure invention, though with an effort to mimic the sound patterns described at Ardalambion. "Ash nazg..." etc. taken from the inscription on the Ring, as read by Gandalf in the Council of Elrond. "Tark-hai" is the orcish word for Númenorean with the standard 'people' suffix, -'hai.' Strangely, I can only find the proper citation for that translation (tark–> person of Númenorean descent) in "Le Seigneur des Anneaux," p. 1226.

"Can't take his medicine!" "Doesn't know what's good for him!" "We shall have some fun later!" TTT, "The Uruk-hai," 64.

"Little people should not meddle in affairs that are too big for them." TTT, "The Uruk-Hai," 73

"The Ring gives power according to the measure of each possessor." FoTR, "The Mirror of Galadriel," 357. Actually a paraphrase, but so close as to deserve a citation.

 Many thanks also to Forodwaith for having written of the _olvar_ of Middle-earth. This here city-slicker tips her hat in gratitude.


	26. Faramir

            There was movement in the darkness. Vague, amorphous silhouettes danced against a ribbon of fire that twisted and writhed around him, and the whispers were a sea of torment. Frodo drifted on their tide, flailing helplessly as the weight of malice bore him down towards the red-dark depths, and that golden brilliance that called: __Frodo... Frodo...!__ Suffocating heat swept over him.

__Sam!__ he cried out, and opened his eyes to darkness deep.

"It's all right, Mr. Frodo, I'm here," said a distant voice.

"Sam!" But the flames that wreathed him roared the higher, then, drowning out all else, and after a brief struggle, Frodo surrendered to them. In his dreams, he marched with Orcs, stumbling and staggering to keep up while the will of the Master bore down upon them. For they were headed into the heart of the fire, into the point of darkness in the center of the flame–the darkness that gaped open like a chasm, like a mouth that swallowed the light and silenced the roar. __Stop seeing me!_ _ Frodo cringed, his progress slowed, though the Orcs showed no signs of slackening the pace. Indeed they seemed of the very substance of flame themselves, their shapes rippling grotesquely, changing as they charged heedless and joyless into the fury of that devouring maw from which stared the Void itself.... __Stop looking! Stop!_ _ He tried to turn away, tried to hide his face, but he could not. Step by unwilling step, he was drawn forward, and that gaze began to peel away at throbbing, tingling flesh, burning where the Ring lay hidden.... __Sam!__

"Frodo? Mr. Frodo?" Frodo moaned softly and managed to lift heavy lids. Someone was leaning over him, and for an awful instant, he was confronted with Grishnákh's hateful visage. A cry rose in his throat, but only a hoarse squeak emerged from between parched lips, and then the Orc did something very odd. It reached out with a clawed hand and gently patted his face with a damp cloth, all the while frowning and seeming very concerned. "Mr. Frodo?"

"S-sam?" Frodo managed, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. There came the sound of water falling back into a bowl as a cloth was wrung out, and the other replied quite distinctly:

"Well, there's a relief! I'd begun to think you'd not recognize anyone, the way you were carrying on, with the fever and all." It certainly sounded like Sam, and when Frodo dared to open his eyes once more, the illusion dissolved, and he found himself staring up into his friend's worried, bruised face. "How do you feel?" Sam asked anxiously, placing the folded cloth on his forehead.

"I... where are we? What's happened?" Frodo demanded weakly, raising his head slightly to look about. A lamp glowed on a plain wooden stand in the corner by the bed, illuminating the bare rock walls of some sort of cave, and a curtain hung behind Sam. From beyond it came the low murmur of voices... human voices. Bewildered, Frodo looked to Sam for an explanation. Sam, though, fidgeted rather unaccountably, biting his lip as his brow furrowed slightly. And it was then that Frodo noticed the ugly welt on Sam's face. Reaching out shakily, he made as if to touch, but Sam caught his hand and squeezed tightly. "What happened...?" he repeated, and this time meant not the battle.

"It's nothing, Mr. Frodo," Sam replied staunchly, reaching for a mug that sat on the table. "Don't you worry about me, now, but just drink this down." Frodo blinked, but he obeyed, aware suddenly of a terrible thirst. Tea of some sort, it proved, and despite a generous amount of honey that sweetened it, the medicinal aftertaste remained. "How do you feel?" Sam asked, as he took the mug back and set it aside.

Frodo shook his head slowly, and after a short silence, he replied, much to his own surprise, "Better. I feel... I feel as though I can think. My head's clearer...." He raised a hand to touch his brow in wonder, and then froze, struck by sudden realization. Glancing down at his left arm, he wriggled his fingers, and was shocked to see them obey instantly. __What is this?__ Astonished, Frodo willed himself to make a fist, and watched as his hand balled obediently. His left arm ached, certainly, yet not as it had, and he ran hesitant fingers over the fresh bandage wrapped snugly about the injury. "Where is it?" he breathed, stricken with sudden panic. "Sam, it's gone!"

"Aye, it is," Sam said, with a beatific grin of relief, but Frodo felt his heart clench in anguish.

" _ _Where is it?__ " he demanded, reaching out to latch his fingers into Sam's collar. "Sam, what happened?"

"Easy does it, now," Sam was quick to shush him, glancing over his shoulder worriedly at the curtain. Turning back to Frodo, he gripped his master's wrist, lowered his voice and continued, "It's all right, Mr. Frodo, we've still got it."

"But where is it, then?" Frodo demanded impatiently, though he, too, lowered his voice to a hissing whisper.

"Well, I couldn't leave it in you, Mr. Frodo–"

" _ _You__ took it?" Frodo hissed, darting an incredulous, horrified look at Sam, who recoiled slightly, eyes wide, as Frodo's hand clenched into a fist at his throat, bunching the fabric in a white-knuckled grip. "Where is It? Where did you put It?"

"It's right here, sir," Sam replied, quickly fishing about in a pocket.

"You touched it?" Frodo demanded.

"Well, in a manner of speaking... yes," Sam admitted, and then seeing Frodo's smoldering look, added quickly, "I had to take it out of you, Frodo. I hadn't much time: the healer wanted a look at you after he'd seen to the other wounded ones, and I was that scared he'd come back before–"

"Give it to me!"

"I will, I will... here," Sam answered, finally pulling a rather stained and wadded up handkerchief from his pocket. Then, he hesitantly extended the little bundle, which Frodo snatched. Immediately, he set about unfolding it, nearly tearing the cloth in his haste to see what lay concealed inside. Gold gleamed at him from within the folds, and a terrible sort of relief coursed through Frodo. __It's safe... It's safe, I have it still!__ With a sigh, he clutched the Ring, handkerchief and all, to his chest.

"I thought I'd lost you," he murmured, shaking his head.

"Mr. Frodo?" Something in Sam's voice cut through that relief and caught his attention. Frodo blinked and glanced up to see Sam staring at him in something akin to horror, eyes wide and bright with tears. The sight shocked him, and of a sudden, he felt rather confused... and then revulsion set in.

"I'm sorry, I... what was I saying, Sam?" Frodo murmured, passing a hand over his eyes. __I thought I'd lost It... you... It_...._ "Oh, Sam, what __have__ I said? " Frodo collapsed back against his pillow with a groan.

"It's all right, sir. I understand," Sam managed valiantly, quickly wiping at his eyes. He reached out and patted Frodo's hand, the one that did not clutch the Ring. "But I think you should put it away now."

"It's not that I want it," Frodo hastened to assure him, even as he stuffed the Ring, kerchief and all, into his trouser pocket. "But I thought... with Boromir–"

"Eh... yes, Boromir," Sam interrupted, unease apparent. "That's... well... it's not what you think, Mr. Frodo."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You see, it's not Boromir, but his brother–"

"He had a brother?" Frodo interjected sharply, searching his mind for any memory of that.

"Aye, he did and he does. One of the guards who brought us back here told me, not but what I might've guessed just by looking at him. They do look an awful lot alike," Sam paused, searching Frodo's face worriedly a moment. Then, somewhat hesitantly: "Don't you remember Boromir telling us about his brother? About Faramir?"

"No, Sam, I'm afraid I don't," Frodo sighed. "You'll have to tell me about him."

"It's a bit hard to explain, sir. You know how there are some as you give a second and a third look, trying to get their measure?" Sam asked, face screwed up thoughtfully.

"Aye, I do."

"That's how Faramir seems to me. Very close, he is."

"Indeed, Master Gamgee, closer than you know," said a new voice just then, as the curtain was drawn back, and Frodo caught his breath. For standing there in the doorway was a young man, or one who would seem young but for the weariness–and wariness–in his eyes, and though it likely needed a fever to mistake him for Boromir, no man could have mistaken them for aught but brothers. Frodo fancied he could see a little of Boromir in the shape of the other's face, and especially in the mouth, for at the moment, Faramir sported a frown that Frodo remembered well from having seen the very same one on Boromir. He felt his heart sink at the sight of it. "A good evening to you both," Faramir continued then, stepping over the threshold and letting fall the curtain. "How is your arm, Master Baggins?" he inquired politely, though those somber eyes did not lighten.

"Better, I think, thank you," Frodo replied, reaching almost unconsciously to press his right hand over the bulk of the bandage.

"You should thank Master Gamgee, for he it was who tended first to you, or so I am told," Faramir said. "I thought I would see whether you had yet wakened, for there is much to be said between us ere I can come to any decision about the two of you."

"Decision?" Sam asked, straightening at that. "What decision?"

"What decision, indeed, Master Gamgee," Faramir replied sardonically, as he stalked over to a corner and retrieved a low-backed chair, which he dragged over to set not far from Sam. Settling into it, he eyed Sam and Frodo, then said, "Gondor is at war, and a captain of Gondor has many concerns to occupy his mind. If he told you naught else, I am certain that Boromir told you that peace is but a happy memory here. Ithilien, where you were found, has long been under the shadow, and it seems each day brings news of another incursion. We had thought to ambush a party of Haradrim making their way north when the Orcs happened upon us. We have fought two battles in as many days, and we lose more men with every passing week. In such times as these, strangers find us hard and unwelcoming, I fear. For there are none in Gondor now but servants of the White Tower, or of the Black." And at this, he caught Frodo's eye, and Frodo, staring back, saw the doubt in the other's gaze.

"We are no spies, Captain Faramir," Frodo said softly, but firmly.

"So you say, and in truth it is rare that Orcs take captive their own. But there is much you have not said, and which your Master Gamgee swears he cannot address. It seems, therefore, that I must apply to you for an explanation. What is your business here, that Orcs should see fit to capture and carry you, as is not their custom?"

"We had no business in Gondor," Frodo answered truthfully. Faramir said nothing, nor did his expression change, but he made a slight motion with his hand for Frodo to continue. And so, carefully, he did, "We lost our way, and stumbled upon the Orcs, who took us captive. I dare not guess their reasons, and indeed, I was ill for much of the march."

"Then if you cannot speak of Orcs' purposes, what of your own? How came you to be lost in a strange land? For do I not guess rightly that the South has never seen your like before, Master Baggins?"

"You do guess rightly," Frodo replied, and then paused. Faramir's gaze did not waver, and he knew that he must be very careful now, for if he strayed from the truth, then Faramir would know it. "Sam and I traveled south with a small company from Rivendell, which the Elves call Imladris. Gandalf the Grey was our leader, who alas, fell in Moria."

"Gandalf fell in Moria?" Faramir questioned sharply, eyes widening with disbelief. "Are you certain of this?"

"Quite certain," Frodo replied, "for we saw him fall before us." Faramir shook his head, as if unable to fathom that, and after a moment, Frodo asked, "Shall I continue, or should I cease for a time?" Again, Faramir motioned for him to go on, and so he did. "There traveled also with us an Elf and a Dwarf, and two of my younger cousins, as well as two Men. Your brother, sir, was one of them. We each of us had our business, and the two Men in particular purposed to come to Gondor, to Minas Tirith–that I know, and if you speak to them of me, then you shall have a fuller answer to your questions than I can give, for I am late come to this war and would have nothing to do with it for my part."

For a long moment, Faramir was silent, digesting this. Then, darting a glance at Sam and then back at Frodo again, he gave a soft grunt and said, "A strange tale, though it has the mark of truth to it. If indeed you knew my brother–and given your words at our first meeting, I must conclude that you did–then it will not surprise you to learn that Imladris is not unknown in the South, thanks to the words of the dream rhyme. But there again, we touch on matters that are unclear, and which by your silence remain unclear. For if you were part of that company, and if Mithrandir, whom you call Gandalf, was truly your guide ere his death, and if my brother traveled willingly with you, then must it not be that you could explain this riddle for me, if you would? What counsel was given in Rivendell that could break the power of yonder nameless land?"

"The Wise, mayhap, could explain it to you, or Aragorn, the other Man of whom I spoke, for he has long sought the overthrow of the Enemy. And he and your brother must draw nigh soon to Minas Tirith, if they are not there already."

"Minas Tirith is leagues from here. Our enemies, by contrast, are close–mere miles from our doorstep, as often as not, though they have yet to discover this refuge. I have not the time to bandy riddles, nor to send for loremasters, for we must move again and soon," Faramir answered, and gave a bare, mirthless smile. "I would hear the tale of this Aragorn and of Mithrandir's final end from my brother. But as he is not here, I must make do with the accounts of two... hobbits, if I recall Master Gamgee's words correctly. Yes, two hobbits. I assure you that I have had long practice in sifting the words of the learned and also of the simple, and of men who wish simply to live as well as they may in hard times. I think that if you essay to teach me your errand, you shall not find me wanting as a pupil. Speak, therefore, and to the point: what is your business? And what is Isildur's Bane, since clearly I deal now with Halflings?"

"If you would learn the business of that company with which I journeyed," Frodo replied, and felt his spine stiffening as he drew himself up as much as he could before Faramir's proud and piercing gaze, "then you must inquire of those who come to south to your city, for I am no longer a part of it. As for Isildur's Bane, that is yet hidden."

"I see," Faramir answered flatly. "In other words, I should mind my own business, even as you seek to mind yours, and inquire elsewhere. No, Master Baggins, I fear that I cannot do that in good conscience. But mayhap," he added, with a sigh and a measuring look, "you have reason to mistrust me. 'You shall never have it!' you told me, when first we met, and called me Boromir. Now, I know not what passed between him and you, but whatever it was, clearly it was serious. And so seeing me, you see him and all your argument, whatever it was."

Sam, at this, darted a look at Frodo, who dared not take his eyes from Faramir's face. The captain's eyes flicked over him once more, pausing on the bulge under his shirt sleeve where the bandages lay, and swept again over his face, noting the bruises, the scrapes. After a moment, he seemed to sigh, and then he rose, looking once to Sam, and then back again to Frodo as he had before. "Your fears are understandable, for is it not the place of brother to defend brother? But I am a captain of Gondor first, and my duty, at least, is clear. I cannot allow you to leave here until I know your task and have made my decision.

"But this I will say, and you may take it as hopeful, if you will: I am not my brother," he said, and Frodo's eyes narrowed, for it seemed to him that there was a note of... pain... of regret when he spoke those words. "You may rest here for a time, and recover your strength, both of you. And while you do, think on what I have said. For we will speak of this again."

He turned to leave, but Sam blurted out just then, "But what decision must you make, sir? You have not told us that yet."

Faramir paused just short of the curtain, and turned to give Sam a look up and down, ere he said coolly, "Whether to slay you or not, Master Gamgee. For that is the law of this land–to slay all whom I find, if they be not friends whom I can send to the White Tower. Rest if you can, and as I said, we shall speak later. Food will be sent to you." With that, he left them, Sam agape and Frodo with an unreadable expression on his face.

The curtain fell back across the entry, hiding him from sight, muffling the sounds of men's quiet industry as soldiers went back and forth in the cavern without on unknown tasks. Sam shut his mouth audibly, eyes narrowing as he gazed after Faramir. __Food my foot! We'll have to watch that one nearly as much as the Orcs!_ _ Which left a bad taste in Sam's mouth, for he was unwilling to think ill of Boromir's brother, even knowing what Boromir had nearly done. __After all, he didn't do it in the end, and this one hasn't done a thing yet, really. He may be all right._ _ And then again, he might not be: who was to say whether Faramir might not also fall prey to that thrice-accursed Ring? "Well, it's a nice pickle we've landed ourselves in, Mr. Frodo," he offered gamely just then, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen. "But what do we do now?"

Frodo sighed softly and drew his knees up to his chest, wincing slightly as he laid a bruised cheek upon them, thinking. __I am not my brother_ ,_ Faramir had said, and Frodo wanted to believe it. Yet when first he had seen him, he had seemed so like his brother, and the memory of Boromir's shame burned in his mind, a rare clear beacon in the mists of his memory. Then again, that very clarity worried him: had he honestly mistaken Faramir for Boromir? Or had it been a trick of the Ring to cheat his eyes and deceive him into giving himself away? __Each passing day it grows heavier. And shall it call through me to him, as it did to Boromir? As it did to Grishnákh?__ There seemed little choice but to school his will to resist, and hope that somehow, he would convince Faramir to release them despite the Ring's influence, which he could feel now as a steady sort of pulse in the back of his mind. Faramir might not be aware of it, but Frodo knew that at any time the Ring might reach out to snare another's will, if it could.

__But it may take some time; usually, it takes time. I must persuade him to trust me._ _Though how I'm to do that when he already knows so much, and suspects more, I do not know. Now indeed would it be the nick of time for Boromir to arrive!_ _ But even that was no sure rescue, for what if the fit took him again, as it had at Parth Galen?

__And what if he cannot come? What if he... and all the others... are dead?_ _And how shall I tell Faramir that I left his brother in such straits?__ "Mr. Frodo?" Frodo blinked, drawn out of his thoughts by Sam's insistent (and worried) voice.

"I don't know, Sam," he admitted reluctantly. "I don't know."

            Orothar had been pleasantly surprised by the relatively minor injuries their unusual guests had sustained. "Bruises and cuts for the most part," the healer had reported when Faramir had returned after a successful ambush of the Haradrim. "The one had a bit of a fever, from that wound to the arm that was beginning to fester. But I have seen to it, and with rest, they ought both to be well enough. Mayhap 'tis true that fortune favors children and the innocent," Orothar had said, and shaken his head. Mablung, though, had snorted at that.

            "Children or the innocent, is it? Well, small they may be, but they are not children. And nothing in Ithilien is innocent," the lieutenant had replied. It was true enough: no lad in Faramir's company could yet boast of having clean hands when it came to blood spilt. That left more sinister possibilities to consider, though admittedly, the two hobbits bore no resemblance to the usual breed of spies. But the image of Frodo's face, distorted with fear and outrage, as he had spoken Boromir's name had persisted through the dark hours of watchfulness and the frenzy of battle. During the march back to Henneth Annûn, Faramir had been much preoccupied with that memory: with Frodo's startling words, and Sam's desperate ones. __Who are you, who speak of Boromir? What are you?_ _ Faramir had demanded even as Frodo had swooned, shocked out of his usual eloquence. __Speak!__

__

__We're hobbits, sir, hobbits_ ,_ Samwise had replied, and torn himself from Damrod's grip to throw himself between his master and Faramir's sword. _ _We're no Orcs, I swear it! You've got to help us!_ _Please!_ _

And Damrod had said, __Captain, if we make south a little ways further, then we may be able to catch the Haradrim unaware. We cannot make our attack here. But if we would do this, then we must leave quickly. There is no time, captain!_ _ And there had been the bodies of their own, still, to deal with, and the wounded as well, and none of them would get much rest that night, and fewer would return tomorrow than anticipated, for the land was not so ideal for an ambush further south and changes in battle plans at late hours almost never met with great success. And so he had snapped at Damrod and taken Samwise at his word and set questions of judgment aside for a time. But though he was only recently returned from the battlefield, he could no longer avoid his own questions, nor the requirements of law. __But it may take time to unravel this puzzle,__ he thought, and wondered how much he could spare it.

"'Seek for the Sword that was Broken,'" he murmured to himself, as he stared out from the Window of Sunset, watching the fading light play off the curtain of water. "Halflings...."

"Captain?" a low voice asked, and Faramir turned swiftly to see a weary Damrod standing there.

"Damrod," Faramir beckoned, and his lieutenant approached. "How fare our guests?"

"Well enough, I suppose. I saw to their supper, and they seemed glad enough of a meal. No signs of imminent treachery, if that is what you mean, sir," Damrod replied, and risked a slight smile.

"I suppose that that is a hopeful sign, although with two hundred armed men surrounding them, it would be foolish to announce themselves less than courteous guests," Faramir replied, and clapped Damrod on the shoulder, squeezing hard. "And how is your back?" For Damrod had been gored by a spear tip, and though the wound was not serious, Faramir knew well how painful it could be.

"If you could prevail upon Orothar to leave me be for a time, I may yet live, Captain," Damrod said wryly, and Faramir chuckled.

"You will do exactly as Orothar prescribes, for I cannot lose you." He paused, then, continued,

"And I am sorry for my words to you yesterday. I may need none to teach me of our peril, but sometimes I do need to be reminded. I fear I was not thinking clearly at the time. Thank you."

Damrod inclined his head, but said nothing, and after a moment, Faramir continued more briskly, "Anborn reports that we were not followed, but nevertheless, we must be cautious. The Enemy must soon learn what happened here, and when he does, we may need to move quickly. Speak with Orothar ere you go to your rest and see how many he thinks may be able to fight in five days' time."

"Aye, sir. Is there aught else?"

"No. Take some rest, Damrod, and we shall speak again in the morning. Good evening."

"Good evening, sir." With that, Damrod retreated, leaving Faramir alone with his thoughts once more. __Isildur's Bane shall waken..._ _the Halflings stand before me, and yet that is hidden. As is Boromir's path._ _ And there was a matter that pricked unduly sharply, for though there were greater things at stake, he guessed, than his brother's relationship with two strangers, still, the fear and fierce defiance on Frodo's face when he had spoken Boromir's name had struck Faramir nearly breathless. __Where are you, brother, and what passed between you and them? What matter so weighty that you should be set against two such as these? Did you learn the answer? Do you know what Isildur's Bane is? And how does it concern two Halflings flung into my arms by Orcs?_ _

Pieces of the puzzle shifted in his head as he sought frantically a way to make sense of it all before the storm of Mordor broke upon them and swept all defenses away. __So little time left! And here I have these two, who might in ten minutes answer all questions, and yet they will not._ _ Isildur's Bane, the Sword that was Broken, Halflings, and Mithrandir's fall. There were those who might have accused the hobbits of murdering Mithrandir, given their suspicious silence, yet Faramir found the very idea outlandish. __What could harm a wizard, after all? Surely not these two! And for all that I trust them not, I read no murder in them._ _But what, then, do I miss in this? What that would unlock the rhyme and solve the riddle for me?__

Long Faramir stood there before the veil of water, listening to the whisper of it as it rushed over the rocks and plunged down to the pool below. Weary as he was, he was not yet so tired that he could sleep with such questions on his mind. The watches wore away, and eventually, Anborn joined him there on the ledge, just as the moon was rising, shedding a cool, watery light on all the land. An owl cried out, its voice echoing weirdly in the sheltered little alcove where they stood, and then fell suddenly silent. Faramir felt a shiver work its way down his back, and he pulled his cloak close about him. __Where are you in this night, Boromir?_ _ Months it had been since he had left, and if they shared nothing else, Faramir knew that he and his lord and father, Denethor, both counted the days since Boromir's departure and fretted in silence. Faramir even fancied that in his dreams, there came the faint call of his brother's horn: the barest whisper of an echo from afar, and yet his nightly visions filled his days with foreboding. For no news had come until a lot of misguided Orcs had nearly run into Faramir's very arms, bearing with them the most unlikely of couriers... and the most silent. __Where are you, brother?__

At just that moment, and without warning, Anborn suddenly fit arrow to string and quick as a fox, let sing his bow. From below, there came a mournful cry that ended quite suddenly, ere Faramir could so much as take two steps to join Anborn where he perched, just beyond the falling waters. Staring down into the moonlit basin below, Faramir could make out a small, limp shape floating in the water, and for some reason, it filled him with dread. Glancing up at Anborn, he raised a brow, inviting explanation. "Kingfisher, my lord," Anborn said laconically.

"Ah." A kingfisher. Who knew, even, whether it had been friend or foe or merely a dumb beast? But the law was ruthless, and Faramir sighed softly, glancing down once more at the bird. Already, the heavy silence of a land under shadow had returned, stifling even the memory of the kingfisher's mortal cry. After a moment, Faramir drew back a pace. __Another fine night's work!__ he thought, feeling disgust twist in his gut. But he said nothing, for there was nothing to be said and especially not before one of his men. With a nod for Anborn, he withdrew then, and made his way back down into the cavern beneath the falls in search of sleep, for it seemed of a sudden that the weight of the Argonath had descended upon his shoulders.

And yet, despite his intention to rest, he found himself standing once more before the curtained recess where slept the hobbits. __Why do I pause? They are as weary as are you; surely they sleep now_ , _he thought. Nevertheless, he reached and quietly drew back the heavy drape. It was dark within, for the candle had been extinguished, but Faramir's eyes picked out two forms huddled together beneath the blankets, curled up tight as snails in their shells. As frightened children they seemed truly, now that the darkness had robbed them of faces, and Faramir felt his heart sink. __Children and the innocent... shall I ever learn the answers to my questions?__ He knew not how long he stood there, staring at his unusual guests, but it could not have been very long. It had been nearly two days since Faramir had last slept, and his body fairly ached with the fatigue that came of two hard-fought battles and a host of worries. Exhaling softly, he quietly drew the curtain shut once more and went at last to his rest...

... while Sam breathed a silent sigh of relief as he heard the rustle of heavy cloth, and then Faramir moving quietly away. _And what was that about?_ he wondered. __He's a queer one, is Captain Faramir, and I can't say as I like it_. _ Memories of Boromir's face and ever-watchful eyes flitted through his mind, and he shivered slightly. __It started that way with Boromir, too, with him watching us... always watching. Bless him, I know he realized it finally, and I don't mean him any disrespect, but....__ But it was better safe than sorry. __It's like I thought before: he may be all right, but he may not, too_._ Sam sighed and rubbed at his eyes, determinedly. __Good thing I slept a bit in the afternoon, while Mr. Frodo was awake,_ _because I won't be getting any more sleep tonight!__

* * *

"Well, it's a nice pickle we've landed ourselves in, Mr. Frodo."—FotR, "The Council of Elrond, 264, minor wording alterations.

There are a number of lines that play very closely off of conversations and/or situations found in TTT, starting in "Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit" and "The Window on the West," but are not actually direct quotes. The above citation is the only one which is significantly similar to the point of making me think a real citation is necessary.


	27. Price of Passage

Frodo slept much the next day. He even slept through breakfast, which would have worried Sam, but that the circles under Frodo's eyes seemed still so dark against his skin. _I reckon this is the first real sleep he's had since we were caught, he thought. Bless me, but it's one of the first I've had for I can't remember how long!_ Despite his fright the night before, when Faramir had looked in on them, after awhile, he had found his eyes closing once the captain had disappeared, and though he had fought against it, sleep had claimed him. It had felt so good to have a mattress and blankets, though after the orcs, even that night in the rocky hollow in the Emyn Muil hadn't seemed so terrible. Sam could not imagine what it must have been like for Frodo, and his eyes went as always to his master's bandaged left arm.   
  
The healer, Orothar, had said yesterday that Frodo had been fortunate. "Wounds treated by orcs often fester, for they do not clean them properly, and sometimes leave dirt or other objects lodged in the flesh. Men have lost limbs thus. Cauteries also often end badly, even when done properly by healers. The shock is too great, and it often serves only to cause further injury," he had said, as he had carefully cleaned and poulticed the injury. "Your master was fortunate indeed."  
  
Orothar had come again earlier in the morning to see how his patients had fared, and Sam had stood anxiously by as the Man had carefully applied fresh dressings to Frodo's arm, and then enlisted Sam's aid in turning Frodo onto his side so that he could check the marks on his neck and back. "I think he may fear less if he wakes to you rather than to me," Orothar had said, which sensible remark and the smile that had accompanied it had moved him up a notch in Sam's estimation. But Frodo had not woken, and Sam had been anxious.  
  
"Shouldn't he be coming around? He's not that heavy a sleeper," he had asked.  
  
"I will confess I added a sedative to your drinks. It acts more strongly on those who are weakened," Orothar had replied.  
  
"How much of it should he have taken?" Sam had asked, then, alarmed.   
  
"There was not enough to harm either of you."  
  
"Maybe not in one cup, but I gave Frodo mine," Sam replied, and had found himself blushing under the healer's look. "Habit, you know, sir," he had mumbled, and after a moment, Orothar had chuckled softly.  
  
"A loyal servant. Nay, he is in no danger, but certainly, he shall sleep for a time. And perhaps it is best, for he needs rest. If he has not awakened by the afternoon, then I shall worry," Orothar had replied, and then gone to see to other charges. That had left Sam to his own devices, and he had taken advantage of the basin and water left for them to wash up for the day, a habit he was delighted to take up again. He had only just finished when another man had arrived to remove the tray with the dishes, though at Sam's request, Frodo's breakfast had been left behind, in case he might want it later. After that, Sam had spent some time sitting on the bed, watching Frodo, or else staring at the curtain and wondering what passed beyond it. Soft-voiced conversations occasionally could be heard clearly as men drifted near, and then they would trail off as they moved further. From the bits that he overheard, Sam learned that a patrol had been sent out that morning, that black squirrels were native to Mirkwood, that Haradric sounded like wheezing, and that there was a company wager that the _mumâk_ continued to roam Ithilien.   
  
"And what's a _mumâk_?" he wondered aloud then, wishing that the speakers had paused a moment. For if it were something that he and Mr. Frodo would have to face when eventually they left this place–and Sam held steadfastly that they _would_ leave it–then best he know all about it. "For I am tired of being surprised again and again. Caradhras and crows and wolves and the Watcher, and orcs so many I'm right well sick of them. Not that it takes much to be sick of orcs. And now I'm talking to myself again, confound it! 'Don't natter on like a ninny, Sam lad, you can't put two words together that nervous!' Well, I'm puttin' 'em together now," he muttered, and wondered if that meant he really were nervous, or whether it were proof that he wasn't really worried about Faramir's decision. A moment he mulled over that, then grunted. "Whether I am or not, that's not the main point. There's plenty else to worry about first!"  
  
For a glance at Frodo, seeming so weary even in sleep, and too thin for a hobbit, brought all his fears to mind in a heartbeat, and despite the bed and chair and stand–signs of civilization long missed–still, the little scoop of a cavern, with its bare rock walls, seemed far too like a cell. For although he'd no proof that there was anyone guarding the door, Sam did not dare to pass beyond it, and not simply because he did not know whether he would be welcomed by those outside. _I can't leave him alone. I can't. What if there_ is _more of Boromir in his brother than Faramir says?_ If there were more, then all those men beyond the curtain would certainly come in handy for the Captain, who did not seem very likely to be caught by surprise, as Sam had caught his orcish attackers by surprise. But that, too, was no matter–Sam had said he would stand by Frodo, and so he would, the Captain of Ithilien be hanged!  
  
Just then, there came a muffled groan from the bed, and Sam turned anxiously to see that Frodo was waking at last. "Mr. Frodo?"  
  
"Mm... is it morning, Sam?" Frodo asked sleepily as he rubbed at his eyes, and then sat up.   
  
"Closer to afternoon, I should think, not that I can tell from here," Sam replied.   
  
"Afternoon?" Frodo frowned. "Why didn't you wake me?"  
  
"Well, Orothar said you needed the rest, and not to worry if the sedative didn't wear off until now. Not to worry, sir," Sam said, deciding in that moment that there was no need to mention that Frodo had been given a double dose by accident, "I've been awake since breakfast."  
  
"And is that the remainder of it?" Frodo asked with sudden interest, noticing the tray, and Sam found himself suddenly and inexplicably close to tears to hear it. After days and days of _lembas_ and then orc fare and feeling as though last night's supper had been the condemned's last meal (which had quite killed any relish for their dinner), something as ordinary as a hobbit's natural interest in food–something utterly untouched by the Ring or the darkness of war–seemed priceless. _Then let's not ruin it, eh Gamgee? Get a hold of yourself, lad!_ he chided himself, swallowing once, and drawing a deep breath ere he replied, in a voice very close to normal:  
  
"Aye, I had them leave it. Thought you might want it, seeing as it's something other than _lembas_."  
  
"And more of it than _lembas_. It's been a long time since we've had a proper meal," Frodo said, as he set to. Swallowing quickly, he shot Sam a look, then, and asked, "Has Faramir come to see us yet?"  
  
"Not yet. I suppose Orothar told him you'd not be awake for awhile. Or else he might be out. I heard some of them–" and Sam hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the curtain "–talking about a patrol. I suppose he might have gone with it."  
  
"Perhaps, but I don't think so, Sam," Frodo said, chewing thoughtfully on the bread provided. "Not when all the answers lie with us. He'd send someone else. But come, sit." Frodo gestured to the chair that Faramir had used the night before, and Sam (quite literally) climbed into it. "Have you been outside?"  
  
"No. I couldn't very well leave you here, not after last night." At Frodo's puzzled look, Sam explained, "He was in here last night, Mr. Frodo."  
  
"Faramir?"  
  
"Aye. Not for very long, but I didn't like it. It just... it felt too much like Lórien, and after, if you take my meaning, sir." At that, Frodo's expression darkened noticeably, and he looked anxiously at that curtained doorway. Something flickered in his eyes, and Sam frowned, as one of Frodo's hands thrust into a pocket. He knew his master's habits, to play with whatever might be in them when nervous, but he didn't miss the fact that it was the pocket that held the Ring. "Mr. Frodo?"  
  
Frodo blinked, shook himself, jerking his hand back, and glanced at Sam. "I'm sorry, what was that?"  
  
"Nothing... yet. Are you all right, sir?"  
  
"Yes. Yes, it's just, well, you mentioned Lothlórien, and it touched... a memory," Frodo said, and Sam raised a brow at that brief hesitation. But before he could remark on it, the other said quickly, "But go on. Faramir came. Did he do anything?"  
  
"Naught more than watch us for a bit. As I said, he left quickly. I'm not saying he meant any harm–I don't want to think he meant any, but what if I'm wrong? I'm not taking any chances," he declared.  
  
"Nor am I," Frodo replied heavily, and then fell silent again as he returned his attention to breakfast. Once he had finished, he slid out of the bed, and Sam tensed, ready to stage a quick rescue in the event that the strain of the past days proved too much. But after a momentary wobble, Frodo drew a deep breath and walked quite steadily, if somewhat slowly, over to the wash basin, where he, too, availed himself of the wash water thoroughly. _Well, how do you like that?_ Sam thought, marveling. Weary Frodo might look, still, but it seemed that he might be all right after all. With that hopeful thought in mind, and having naught else to do, Sam set about pulling the sheets back into place with more than his usual care. When he had done with that task, he dragged the chair back to its place in the corner, pushed the tray a bit further back on the bedside stand, and then found himself wishing there were something more to do.   
  
"I could do with a bit of greenery in here, especially if we are to be cooped awhile," he muttered, scowling at the bare walls.   
  
"It is a sad place," Frodo said, which earned him another worried look. He seemed not to notice, however, as he made his way over to their packs, which Faramir's men had found on the battlefield, and searched through his until he found a shirt. Carefully, Frodo put it on, wincing only a bit as he did so. The buttons presented a bit more of a problem, as he fumbled the first two. His arm clearly still gave him pain, and his left hand shook noticeably. After a moment, Sam stalked over and matter of factly began doing them up for him.   
  
"There we go, Mr. Frodo," he said after a minute.   
  
"Thank you," Frodo replied, and grimaced, rubbing gently at his injured arm.   
  
"It's no trouble. You'll be doing them yourself in no time, I'm sure," Sam replied, and Frodo shook his head.  
  
"If only it were just buttons," Frodo sighed, and Sam scowled.  
  
"Now see here, Mr. Frodo, there's nothing wrong with you that time won't cure. You've been sick since the orcs picked us up and no wonder! I don't mind buttoning buttons while you're still a bit shaky–better be shaky now than shaky then," Sam replied. "Might've lost an arm _then_ , if you take my meaning."  
  
"Better an arm than the whole," Frodo replied, but then quickly shook his head, dismissing the matter. "Never mind, Sam. I'm sure you're right, and I'm not quite myself yet."  
  
"Maybe you should rest some more, sir," Sam suggested, but Frodo shook his head again.  
  
"I can't, Sam. If it hadn't been for the sedative, I'd not have slept so long, I think. I've lost the habit, I fear," he replied, and sighed as he turned away.  
  
"Well, so long as you don't go wearing yourself out," Sam said at length. "Faramir said he'd have another word with us, but I'm thinking he means mostly you, not me. Wish I'd not said that now, about you bein' the only one who could tell him anything, but I couldn't think of much else to say that he'd believe or that mightn't do worse harm than that. Not on the spot like that."  
  
"You did well, Sam, and rightly," Frodo replied, firmly, without turning back to him. Indeed, he seemed at the moment more interested in the floor, as he stared down at it, scuffing a heel against it absently. Sam was about to reply when Frodo continued of a sudden, in a voice almost too soft to hear, "It is only right. It's my burden to carry. It's only right that I answer for it." At that, Sam looked sharply at Frodo's right hand, which hung at his side in plain sight, but he was touching something through the cloth...  
  
"Sir, I really think–"  
  
But he stopped of his own accord, as a familiar voice sounded without, saying, "Come speak with me later, and we shall discuss our deployment, Mablung." Sam froze, while Frodo turned slowly, just as footsteps came to a halt just outside. "Master Baggins, Master Gamgee, may I enter?" Sam was half of a mind to say 'no', given that he wasn't sure whether some fit was about to come over his master, but Frodo answered then, sounding quite well enough in that moment:  
  
"You may, Captain." The curtain was pushed aside, and Faramir stood there in the entryway, backed by daylight.   
  
"Good afternoon to you both," Faramir said, giving each of them a quick, searching regard. "It seems a night's rest has done you both good. I am glad to see it."  
  
"Does that mean you're letting us go?" Sam demanded, raising a brow skeptically, and Faramir gave a little snort of amusement as he shook his head.  
  
"No, Master Gamgee, it means that whatever my decision, there is no reason for you to suffer particularly in the mean time. War disfigures, but the Men of Gondor are not yet ogres." To which, Sam could say nothing, though he did have to blush a bit. He had not meant it to sound like that, and he supposed he ought to be glad that Faramir seemed to take no offense. But before he could manage an apology, Faramir had turned his attention to Frodo. "I would speak further with you on those matters we let lie last night, Master Baggins. Are you well enough for a climb, or should we remain here?"  
  
"How long of a climb?"  
  
"'Tis steeper than it is long, but we may pause along the way at need. And it is less likely that we shall be interrupted or overheard there, since secrecy is plainly at issue." Sam shook his head at that, and shot a worried look at his master, who did not at all seem well enough to him to make such an ascent, never mind that they'd be doing harder things the moment they got free–for they would be set free, he reminded himself.  
  
But Frodo only nodded, and said, "Then I will attempt the climb. Sam, I am better, I promise. You needn't hover."  
  
"But–"  
  
"I have an hour, Master Gamgee. You shall see him again then, just as you see him now. You have my word that it shall be so, and we of Gondor swear no oaths lightly," Faramir replied, catching Sam's eyes with his own and holding him under his gaze until Sam reluctantly nodded. "Very good. Then in the mean time, you may, if you wish, wander Henneth Annûn, so long as you make no attempt to leave the main cavern."  
  
"Henneth Annûn?" Sam asked, as he followed Faramir and Frodo out of their stony recess and into the light of day. Blinking, Sam glanced over his shoulder at the cave mouth... and stopped dead. _Bless me!_ he thought, squinting as he reached up a hand to shield his eyes from the glare. Ever since he had been brought to this place, he had been aware of the rush of water, and had guessed that there must be a stream or river that emptied into a fall nearby. But he would never have guessed, for all that it had sounded quite near, that the cave itself would open out onto a such a dazzling display. Bright afternoon sunlight played off the stream of water that plunged past the cave mouth, throwing an intricate weave of light and shadow on the opposite wall, and the water itself seemed as a curtain of glittering jewels, or so much falling glass. But against that brilliance, silhouettes stood dark and straight–guards girt with swords, and with bow staves to hand.   
  
"The Window on the West," Faramir said then, and when Sam tore his eyes away from the sight to look up at him, he found the Captain, too, staring at the falls as one entranced. "So we call this place–our final refuge in Ithilien, unknown yet to the enemy. And we would keep it hidden still awhile," he said, voice sharpening slightly, as he looked down at his unusual guests. To Sam, he said, "Stay and watch, if you like, or go whither you will within this place, only do not give the guards reason to question you. We shall return in an hour. Come, Master Baggins." Frodo nodded, and began following Faramir towards the back of the cavern, towards a narrow, dark doorway. But he shot Sam a reassuring look over his shoulder before turning away. Sam watched him go, waiting until he saw the mismatched pair of hobbit and Man disappear through the door before he turned back to the falls. A pretty sight they were, indeed, and he was happy to call it one of the lovelier things he'd seen on this journey, outside of Rivendell and Lórien.  
  
And yet, he found himself thinking of old Mr. Bilbo and his rhyming that'd helped them on their way. ' _All that is gold does not glitter.' Well, and who's to say that all that shines is gold, either?_ He chewed his lower lip for a time, arguing this way and that in his mind against trying to sneak after his master. _There's nothing for it, I suppose, but to trust Mr. Frodo knows what he's doing. One hour, Captain Faramir says? Watched pots or no, I'll be counting!_ But what if in spite of Faramir's words, the hour passed and Frodo did not return? What if Faramir was counting upon privacy as well, so no one would see what he did? What if...? Sam turned away from the falls and stared across a cavern full of grave men in green and brown at that doorway.   
  
_An hour's a long time_ , he thought, and made his choice.  
  


***

  
Frodo climbed slowly up the dimly lit stairs, feeling Faramir's eyes on him. The Captain had waved him ahead courteously, saying, "There is but one choice of ways, and that not difficult. Only watch your step in the darkness." Frodo had nodded, though in truth, he had not needed that last warning; since that night in the dell beneath Weathertop, his senses had grown the keener for things unseen. They walked in silence, and Frodo found, to his surprise, that though he was weary, he felt no need to stop so long as he kept to his pace. He would not have expected that, and wondered what Faramir made of him, for he did not doubt that there was more than courtesy in his insistence that Frodo precede him. It might allow him to pause easily whenever Frodo did, but it also let him watch his 'guest', the better to judge him, while preventing Frodo from doing the same.   
  
They reached a landing, upon which shone the bright light of day through a hewn shaft. There, the way split, and Faramir touched his left shoulder. "This way," he murmured, indicating the winding stair. Long they climbed until at last the stair let out onto a broad, flat shelf of rock. A sentry stood there, but when Faramir approached and spoke to him in a low voice, the man nodded, slung his bow over his shoulder, and disappeared down the stairs. Whether he returned to the main cavern or waited just out of easy earshot for his captain to recall him, Frodo did not know.   
  
"Come and look a moment," Faramir invited, beckoning Frodo to join him at the brink, and Frodo obeyed, though not without a certain trepidation. The waters of the stream ran below them, falling eventually to the left before the Window and thence down into the pool. Beyond that, the forest lay, 'til the broad ribbon of Anduin broke through it, gleaming in the gold light of the afternoon. Yet the western shore of the great river seemed to Frodo dim... mute... as if a haze obscured it. "Behold the heart of Gondor," Faramir said beside him, indicating the white-tipped mountains that rose up from that seeming mist. "At the feet of the White Mountains lies Minas Tirith, where I hope I shall hear Boromir's tale in time. If time is given us, that is," he added. "It may be a running retreat to her walls, and if so, then there shall be little time for tales told in full, even one so weighty as he might bring."  
  
"Why do you show me this?" Frodo asked after a moment.   
  
"So that you may perhaps understand our plight here. This is but the vulnerable heart of the kingdom–here will the first and hardest blow be struck. But south along the river as far as Belfalas Bay, still there is Gondor. That is much to defend, and the Enemy knows well that fortune does not favor us. Hence we take no chances in these dark times, and he who is not our ally we deem foe of necessity, for there are no judges any more who do not render decision with the edge of a sword. We are become a people of war."  
  
"I see," Frodo replied, and he did. All too clearly, as if Faramir's speaking had conjured them, he saw the lines and lines of Gondor's youth marching ever onward and eastward... and beyond them, the miles of furrowed earth that was their final bed. White, bloodless faces and empty eyes that he could almost touch...  
  
"Frodo?" Faramir's sharp inquiry made him blink, and he started slightly, remembering then to breathe. Looking up quickly, he saw the Captain's puzzled frown. "Perhaps you took the stairs too quickly."  
  
"Ah... perhaps, yes," Frodo replied, grasping at the proffered excuse, though his heart was still all aflutter and his knees felt weak, unable to bear his own weight. _What was that?_ he wondered. "I think I will sit, if I may."  
  
"Please do so," Faramir replied, and laid a hand on his shoulder, solicitously guiding him back away from the edge to the shadow of a rocky tower that rose above them some three times the height of a man. There Frodo sank down heavily, putting his back to it, drawing his knees up and resting his forehead against them. _It used to be dizzy spells and terror, and the world would darken. Is it now to be visions? Visions of what? From where? Or is it simply my mind wandering?_ The answers to such questions were not forthcoming, unless he counted that intuition that had led him so readily to the Ring. _So real they seemed, for just that moment..._ "Should I send for Orothar?"   
  
"No, no, that is not necessary," Frodo replied, raising his head then to find Faramir gazing down at him with a certain concern. "Thank you, but I am well."  
  
"Very well then. Let us turn more fully to our purpose. You would have me release you and your servant. I still await a reason for such charity that would satisfy me."   
  
"And what would satisfy you?" Frodo asked.  
  
"Honesty in full. Tell me whither you are bound and what your errand is, and mayhap I shall find a reason to release you to Minas Tirith, there to gain my father's permission to wander this land, or go whither you will."  
  
"I cannot tell you all–" Frodo began, and was cut off.  
  
"Then I cannot release you. Frodo," Faramir said, surprising Frodo as he knelt down before him, resting his chin on his upraised knee so that they were as close to eye level as was possible between a hobbit and Man, "you must tell me something of your task, else I can do nothing else but let fall a sentence I do not wish to deal out, though I will do so. I have done so before and for less reason than I would have in this case. For you have a purpose in being here; that is clear, despite your careful words. I do not blame you for your caution; indeed, as I have said, I understand a part of it. Believe me when I say that I understand all too well that family complicates matters. And I tell you now, and so give you far more than perhaps I ought: given my choice, I would escort you north or west, and leave you on the borders of this land. But I have not the time nor the men to do so, and such authority as I have to do so ought properly to bow before the law which leaves me with no such choice. Can you tell me anything that would merit impropriety on my part?"  
  
Frodo stared at Faramir, at a face so like Boromir's and yet so different as well, and there was no doubting his earnestness. And yet... it was so short a step towards a fall! After a moment, Frodo asked, "Would you save Gondor, Faramir?"  
  
"Need you ask?" Faramir replied, blinking in surprise. "But wh–?"  
  
"At any cost?"  
  
There followed a short silence, as Faramir seemed to consider not his answer but Frodo himself. Finally, "There are some deeds the doing of which undoes all good that comes of them. I would not make Gondor into Mordor only to match Mordor's strength. But such words may be of little worth, for there is no testing of them. And I wait still to learn why I should send you to my father rather than to the earth of Ithilien."  
  
"What if there were a test?"  
  
"Frodo," Faramir shook his head, and his expression hardened slightly, "this leads no where. Shall I tell you all I have against you? Shall I ask how you came by that cut on your arm? 'Tis an odd place for such a mark–the inside of your arm, and it goes the wrong way for a thrust that caught flesh with the edge. Orothar says 'tis well nigh surgical, and not so deep as one would expect. What am I to make of that? What am I to make of the fact that the orcs did you so little damage? What am I to make of your refusal to speak and your suspicion of Boromir, who is Captain-General of the army and heir to the Stewardship of this realm? Shall I think that such speaks well of you and your intentions towards my people and all who oppose the Dark Lord?"  
  
Frodo gazed at him. He had not taken his eyes from Faramir's face, nor blinked as the other had spoken. And it seemed to him then that if he could not possibly know every corner of Faramir's heart, he knew the larger part of it. And so he replied, "Lord Elrond laid it upon me to accomplish this task of mine, and to entrust it to no other. Nor should I let any other touch my burden, or speak of it beyond the Fellowship except at gravest need. It seems that the need is grave, for if I do not speak, I shan't take a step further." Faramir sat back a bit, back straightening as Frodo, nervous despite his decision, rose then and shoved his hands into his pockets, as was his wont before an audience, even so small an audience as this. "'Tis something of a long tale, Captain."  
  
"I have an hour," Faramir replied. "Speak!" And so Frodo did, as briefly as he could: of the tale of the Ring, as much as he could remember it from that long ago day in Bag End; of the flight to Rivendell and the Council there; of the decision to destroy it, and the Fellowship's journey through Moria, Lothlórien, and down to Parth Galen. There, he carefully avoided mention of Boromir's part in convincing him to depart, saying simply that he had chosen Sam to accompany him of the others, and then left. Of the cheerless days in the Emyn Muil he said but little, deeming them less important than the capture by Grishnákh, and his desperate bid to hide the Ring.   
  
"I cannot remember much after that, I'm afraid," Frodo said then, biting his lip briefly as his hands clenched involuntarily into fists at the thought of those nightmare days, and the gold of the Ring bit into the palm of his hand. "I remember a little of the battle, and I think I do remember you, and then I awoke here." Drawing a deep breath, he looked over at Faramir, who had taken Frodo's place–now he sat against the spire of rock and stared, hands hanging limply between his knees, and his face was unreadable. "There is my tale, Captain. What will you do with it?"  
  
Faramir did not answer at once, though he did, after a moment, rise and move to stand before him, casting a quick glance over his shoulder at the Ered Nimrais as he did so. "So the Ring of Power has been found at last," he said softly, and as he turned from that view to stare down at Frodo, a strange light was in them. "And so I believe, now, that I know what drove you to cry out as you did when first we met. You have not said it, but tell me now: did he fall to It?"  
  
There was no way to refuse to answer that question, for to refuse was also to answer, and so Frodo replied simply, "Boromir repented." Faramir nodded slowly, and raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, then pressed it over his eyes briefly as he murmured something under his breath that sounded elvish, though it was too quick for Frodo to catch.  
  
"You are certain?"  
  
"I am."  
  
"Then that is some small comfort. At least he shall return to us in truth, and not in seeming only. That would be... unbearable," Faramir replied, lowering his hand, though tension remained, plainly, and Frodo sensed that he would not be at ease until he had seen Boromir for himself. Which inspired a stab of guilt in Frodo for having neglected to mention the likelihood that orcs had claimed at least a few of the Fellowship upon Parth Galen, but there was nothing to be done about that now. He could spare no regrets for the Company when his own fate and thereby that of the Ring was still uncertain.   
  
And so he asked, "I am sorry to bear bad news, Captain Faramir, but I must ask you now: having heard our tale, what is your decision?"   
  
Faramir gave him a queer look, then, ere at length he sighed and said, "What indeed! What shall I do, now that this thing that could claim even my brother is now here? It cannot remain here, clearly, for I would not trust it not to betray us all, and yet... Almost I wish I heard some lie in your voice, some quaver or betrayal, or seen just a hint of shadow about your eyes. It would be simpler thus, to trust myself to handle this matter rather than two such strangers." Which words ought to have given Frodo cause for fear, yet he felt none, waiting for the rest. Faramir shook his head, "But as I said, I am not my brother, and so I shall neither trust myself, nor leave all to fate. You purpose to destroy what should never have been wrought. So be it–I cannot refuse my aid." At which, Frodo breathed out a sigh of relief.   
  
"But Frodo," said Faramir, then, raising his hands in a cautionary gesture, "I must tell you that I do not see a chance of success if you must reach Orodruin. Until two weeks ago, I had scouts watching the Black Gates. Six days ago, one of them wandered into Cair Andros–a fortress upon the river–with the news that none were left. He had barely survived, and his comrades were slain. The Gate is heavily guarded, and not only by orcs. Nazgûl have been seen along the towers, and they fly over the lands now upon their steeds. Whatever guise you took, you would not pass such guardians. There is no hope there."  
  
"Then what do you suggest? There must be a way," Frodo pressed, but Faramir shook his head.   
  
"There is no way." Certainty there was aplenty in his voice, and a sort of dread was in Faramir's eyes as he gazed down at Frodo.   
  
"No way?"  
  
"None." The hope that had blossomed at Faramir's promise of aid collapsed, crushed in an instant, and Frodo bowed his head... just as a yelp sounded from the doorway. Both Frodo and Faramir whirled, Faramir's hand going instantly to his sword as he stepped forward, moving automatically to shield Frodo.  
  
Another cry sounded–a frustrated one this time, and there came the sound of someone dashing up a flight of steps as out onto the shelf ran Samwise Gamgee with an indignant guard in hot pursuit. "Sam!" Frodo cried, even as the guard lunged. He caught Sam's collar, dragging him back.  
  
"I am sorry, my lord, I do not know how he managed–" the Ranger began, but was waved to silence.   
  
"Did I not say to give the guards no trouble and to remain in the cavern?" Faramir inquired in a mild tone that nonetheless made Frodo shiver slightly, as he wondered what this display might do to Faramir's fledgling trust in his and Sam's good intentions.   
  
"Urk!" was Sam's reply as he tugged, red-faced, at his collar. Faramir signed for the Ranger to release him, and Sam sagged, rubbing at his throat as he panted a minute. Then, swallowing hard, he straightened up, squaring his shoulders as he said, "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but it weren't right of me _not_ to–not when I'd promised to stand by him 'til all this bad business is done." Faramir raised a brow, but Frodo, only sighed.   
  
"Dropping eaves again, Sam?" he asked. Sam blushed red at that, but there was no contrition in his voice when he spoke.  
  
"I had to, sir. And I'd've stayed right where I was and gave no one no trouble at all, but I heard him say 'no way in.' But there is one–there has to be one. There has to be! And I bet he knows it."  
  
"What do you mean?" Frodo asked, confused.  
  
"Don't you see, sir? We were all heading to the Black Gate–Grishnákh told us so. But what the Captain said just now about there being too many companies on the prowl there–that's why Grishnákh turned aside. You weren't awake for much of it, but they had some quarrels over us, I tell you. Those orcs were runnin'–running away from trouble and a missed meeting with a Nazgûl after they came out of Horse Country with nothing. But Grishnákh wasn't one to be satisfied with nothing. So there has to be a back way into Mordor. Otherwise, where was he going?" It all came out in a rush, and Frodo frankly stared. It was not that he had never appreciated Sam's good sense before, but he would not have thought he would have come up with any such explanation. _And yet it makes sense. Too much sense._ He glanced up at Faramir, suddenly skeptical.  
  
"Is he right, Captain?"  
  
Faramir frowned, but after a moment he replied, "There is Minas Morgul, but that, too, is guarded, and a Nazgûl is lieutenant of that tower. Orcs might pass within, but you would not, and even orcs would not pass unnoticed."  
  
"But there must be some way. Grishnákh wouldn't have turned this way, otherwise," Sam insisted.   
  
"There is another way, isn't there?" Frodo said, staring up at Faramir. _There is one. He won't say it–he's afraid to say it. But I see it in his eyes; I feel it. He does know._ "Isn't there?" he pressed again, and was somewhat surprised by the sudden steel in his voice.  
  
Faramir gave him a startled look as well, but after a moment, he motioned for the Ranger to leave. The other man hesitated, but then, apparently thinking it must be ridiculous to believe his captain in any danger from a pair of Halflings, he turned and went. Once he was out of sight, Faramir replied, with obvious reluctance, "Cirith Ungol is the third way past the mountains, but it casts a black shadow on the hearts of all the men of lore in Minas Tirith, and even among orcs, its name is unloved. I would not go that way."  
  
"But there is no Nazgûl? No guards?"  
  
"Mayhap not a Nazgûl, but I know nothing of guards. There may be. There must be something there that makes both Men and orcs mortally afraid. If this Grishnákh would dare that pass, then he was desperate indeed."  
  
"And so are we," Frodo muttered. "That's it then. We shall have to go that way."  
  
"Frodo, hear me, it would be better to wait–"  
  
"We cannot! It calls, Captain. Even now, it calls, and I can see–" Frodo paused, biting back the rest of that harsh reply. _I can see the Dawnlessness that awaits, but they cannot. They cannot, and I dare not speak of it. There's pity for you!_  
  
"Time is nearly out, there is no question of that," Faramir replied, arguing intently in a low voice, "but you would likely break the glass entire were you to go the way of Cirith Ungol. Certainly you would if you tried Minas Morgul or the Black Gate."  
  
"And it is equally certain that to wait is to perish," Frodo argued back. "No, we cannot wait. We shall not, Sam and I. War is not our business but yours, and as I said, we would have no part in it. Leave us to do our part and do not hinder us."  
  
"I would not hinder–"  
  
"Then tell me where this Cirith Ungol is."  
  
"Frodo–"  
  
"Tell me!" Frodo barked.  
  
"'Tis by Minas Morgul, some three days' quick march south of here." Faramir blinked then, and his jaw dropped slightly, as if in puzzled astonishment at his own words, but Frodo did not pause.  
  
"How shall we pass Minas Morgul, then?"  
  
"I do not... there is a pass north of the tower, past the crossroads, where the road divides again. So the maps make it."  
  
"And will you show us the way there?"  
  
"I–what _is_ this?" Faramir shook his head sharply, as if trying to clear his mind or still his tongue or both. Bewildered, he stared at Frodo, who stared right back, and Sam, watching in that moment, found that the hair on the back of his neck stood up. No particular reason for it but a shiver in the bones that felt as a note on high that rang of metal... As Frodo sucked in a breath of sudden, jerking his hands from his pockets with a soft cry of dismay. At the same moment, his knees seemed to unlock, as if that moment's realization had leeched him of all strength, and Faramir reached out swiftly to steady him even as Sam hurried forward.  
  
"Mr. Frodo?" he asked, feeling a knot of dread in the pit of his stomach.   
  
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I never meant–or did I? It's always there, now. It's always there at the back of my mind and sometimes I can't tell..." Frodo whispered, shutting his eyes tightly, and his hands were ice-cold and shaking as Sam took them in his own, chafing at them gently to warm them.   
  
"We've got to get you out of here," Sam murmured, and turned a pleading look up at Faramir. "You see it now, don't you, sir? Why we can't just wait here? We've got to find our way to that mountain and soon!"  
  
Faramir's grey eyes were dark with some unidentifiable emotion, and when he spoke, there was a painful little twist to his tone, as he replied, "And this the hope from which we hang. Alas, Boromir, I do understand." Shaking himself then, he continued grimly, "Remain here and do not speak with Anborn. I shall return shortly. You will leave before sunset, with such aid as I can spare."  
  
With that, he rose, leaving Frodo to Sam's care and strode swiftly towards the stair. Just at the threshold of the hewn door, however, he paused and looked back; Sam, watching, felt his heart skip an anxious beat, wondering if it was already too late and that one taste of the Ring's power had been enough to turn him. But the hesitation was brief, and then Faramir disappeared below. A few moments later, the guard–Anborn, Sam supposed–appeared, but he did not join them on the shelf, remaining rather upon the final steps, a shadow in the shadows.   
  
_Well, it looks as if we've convinced Captain Faramir at any rate,_ Sam thought, trying to draw something good out of all of it. _He'll see us off, get us on the right road again. It's not so bad, is it? We missed the Black Gate, had a bit of time to heal, and we've a guide to the back door that doesn't want to eat us himself. It's not so bad. Mr. Frodo will get better, and then this won't happen as often, surely._ But Frodo's hands were clenched tight in his, and his face was drawn with a weariness that made his heart sink.  
  
_How're we going to get to Mt. Doom like this?_ he wondered. To that, he had no answer.


	28. Crossroads

Faramir was as good as his word. By sunset, the hobbits found themselves passing blindfolded through Ithilien, for as Faramir had explained ere they had left, strangers were not permitted to know the way to Henneth Annûn. Hearing that, Frodo had said nothing but felt the cold, hard knot of dread in his stomach tighten. In the midst of his horror, weakness and revulsion upon the high shelf above the hidden refuge, he had thought the world had gone grey, but now, as the Rangers led him along hidden paths, it seemed he saw too clearly, as if the barrier of cloth were nothing at all. All seemed bathed in a golden light that left no shadows within which to hide. From Ithilien to Minas Tirith, he fancied there was naught he could not see–Rangers tucked like foxes in their various lairs, birds and beasts, orcs, the occasional moth. Everything stood revealed. Everything. But Faramir need not know his exposure, there being nothing he could do about it in any case if it were true. Hence they walked in silence, he and Sam, and Faramir and his guards, all of them bound Frodo knew not whither.

At length, however, the Ranger guiding him squeezed his shoulders and brought him to a halt. Fingers tugged at the blindfold, and then Frodo found himself blinking in the twilight. Beside him, Sam rubbed at his eyes, scratched behind an ear, and glanced warily about. At this hour, the forest was so much shadow beneath a grey sky, and for a moment, Frodo felt disoriented, as if that gold-cast world had bled away into a fog. But after a few moments, his vision began to adjust, and he glanced up questioningly at Faramir.

"This way," Faramir murmured then. The hobbits followed him, and the two guards silently fell back a step, flanking them protectively. The night breezes were cool with winter still, but it was not an unpleasant evening in truth. A few months ago, Frodo might have appreciated it. _Before Gandalf fell. Before Boromir was taken. Before Grishnákh._ Frodo shuddered a bit at the thought of the orc captain, and firmly thrust his hideous image from mind. If he were lucky, then perhaps ere the end, memory of his tormentor might fade just as surely as memories of friends.

Faramir led them on for another hour, or perhaps a little longer, until finally, he came to a halt. Dark as it was, still, he turned and knelt before the hobbits once more, beckoning them closer. When Sam and Frodo had approached, he said in a low voice, "We have brought you across the road in safety. The patrol that I sent out this morning reported that no enemy was upon it for many miles, and it may be that our battles have bought you some time. Still, as you follow the forest eaves south, have a care, and be prepared to hide at need, for the Dark Lord is mustering his forces and the road will turn away from the trees after a time. Take these, therefore."

And here, Faramir motioned to one of the guards, who presented the hobbits with a pair of daggers. Well if plainly worked they were, sturdy and heavier than Sting or Sam's barrow-blade, but they were well-balanced, fit the hand easily, and would serve the hobbits well as swords.

"Belts you have for such as these," Faramir continued, as the guard knelt and armed the hobbits, "but we found no weapons to match them upon the field, nor among what we salvaged from the orcs. These we issue to new Rangers and they have served many well. Now, as to your course, the road is near, and when the forest ends, you shall see it before you. Follow it until you come to the crossroads, where the old king waits, and then continue until you stand within sight of Minas Morgul. Once there, continue east as swiftly as you may and follow the road up into the mountains; there lies Cirith Ungol. Beyond that, I can tell you no more of the path, for I know no more. But should you pass the tower and that dreadful way, you shall enter into a land of thirst. We have given you such water and food as you can carry. Drink therefore while in Ithilien where water is plentiful and refill the skins ere you reach the vale, for to drink of any stream that flows out of Imlad Morgul is perilous."

He paused, and in the new-birthed starlight, Frodo caught the gleam of his eyes, as he said, "I will not hide from you that my heart forebodes no good to come, nor do I hope that I shall see you again. Though," he added, and Frodo felt a certain surprise to hear a note of wry humor in his voice, "I hope that Sam shall not take that to mean that I am glad to be rid of you." Beside him, Sam muttered something inaudible, and Frodo was certain his friend was blushing furiously. "But if I would not have you bear this burden, glad am I that It shall be no longer near me, Frodo. It is not given to Men, it seems, to withstand such a trial, and of hobbits I know too little to judge. Therefore ere I go, I shall ask you for one favor."

"What is that, my lord?" Frodo asked warily, and he had the impression that Faramir smiled, though his voice was solemn when he spoke:

"When the way hardens, remember my brother."

Frodo felt his breath catch at that, as Faramir laid hands upon his shoulders and kissed his brow, then did the same to Sam, who bowed awkwardly in response. Then the Captain of Ithilien rose, as Frodo replied, "I shall try."

"Do so. And if it spurs you, then think of us who labor here. Fare you well, Frodo Baggins, Master Gamgee, unto the end." So saying, he bowed once and low. Then, with a soft-spoken word to his Rangers, he stepped past the hobbits and, moving like shades themselves, the trio disappeared amid the trees.

For a time, the hobbits stood still, gazing into the darkness after them, until at last, Sam said softly, "Well, then, how do you like that? Not much for cheer, but he's a wise one after all."

"Perhaps so," Frodo replied, still staring into the shadows. But at length, he turned away. Settling his pack more firmly on his back, he said in a low voice, "Come, Sam. We should go."

It was very near dawn before they stopped, after having groped and clambered along the edge of the forest for hours, with but few pauses. They crawled beneath a clump of gorse, where Frodo promptly fell asleep. Sam, who had been digging about in his backpack after a bag of dried apples, looked over his shoulder to find that his master had nodded off between one moment and the next. _Well, Orothar said he would need a bit more time before he could go so long as before. I know I'm still a bit sore in the legs, myself. And it'll take longer before Mr. Frodo's arm heals_ , he thought, shining an apple on his sleeve out of habit before biting into it. Wrapping his arms about his knees, he settled in to keep watch as the day dawned. No bird announced it, however: whether they slept still or had fled, Sam did not know. Nor did he in fact know what the precise hour was, for a strange reek clouded the sky, such as Sam had never seen before, blotting out the sun. Sam squirmed a bit, uneasy, but as the hours passed, naught threatening showed itself, not even the mysterious mumâk, about which he still knew nothing but the name.

Some hours later, Frodo woke again and suddenly, sitting up quickly. Perhaps a little too quickly, as Sam reached out a hand to steady him. "Easy, Mr. Frodo. There's none but us here. And watch your head or you'll be caught in this infernal bush."

In the gloom, Frodo rubbed his eyes, then stared about at the darkened land, frowning. "What hour is it?"

"I don't rightly know," Sam admitted, shaking his head. "Sometime past dawn but before noon, I should say. With all this reek, it's hard to know if the sun's even up."

"She's up," Frodo replied softly. "And so should we be." So he said, as he accepted an apple and some bread from Sam with a nod of thanks. It was a frugal lunch, and Sam would have lingered over it longer, for he worried about his master's health. But Frodo was insistent: "The day is old already, and I would see the crossroads as soon as we can. Reek or no, we are exposed here; we must hurry."

"I'll not argue that, sir. These woods're too quiet for my liking," Sam agreed, hoisting his pack, and helping Frodo clamber out from beneath the gorse. "But," he continued, "don't forget you need to keep your strength up, and that may mean making haste a little more slowly."

"I know, Sam," Frodo replied. "But for the moment, I feel well enough, all things considered, so let us make the most of it!"

And so they did. All that day they kept a southward course as the sun, unseen, swept towards the west, and the shade lay heavy beneath the trees. The hobbits strained their ears as they walked, seeking the least sound that might herald the presence of another living being. But all the woodland creatures lay silent, or else, beasts being perhaps wiser than Men thought, they had abandoned the deadly woods of eastern Ithilien and sought harbor elsewhere. Only occasionally would they hear a rumbling, as of some distant thunder, but else, there was naught to be heard. Twice, Sam insisted that they stop to rest, and both times, he made certain that Frodo ate. Not that there seemed any real reason for concern in that regard: Frodo wolfed down their rations, and Sam took the opportunity to press as much as he dared on him. As much as prudence dictated that they be sparing with their food, Sam was not about to be so careful as to endanger Frodo's health. _Wonder enough that he's on his feet so long as it is, he thought. No need to make it more of one._

Evening came, and the hobbits marked it with joy for the first time in many a long month, for it was then only that the sun escaped the miasma, winking bright upon the western horizon ere it set. A brief and precious reprieve it seemed to them, ere they returned to their blind labor. As they had the night before, they pressed on, though they moved less quickly in the pitch dark, walking hand in hand and feeling their way forward 'til at length, spirits flagging and feet faltering, they sank down beneath one of the trees. "Tomorrow," Frodo panted softly, "tomorrow we must move more quickly." Sam said nothing. He had not slept since the night before last, and he was nodding where he sat. Weary as Frodo was, he hesitated. So close to Mordor, and under such unfriendly skies, who knew what evil might befall a pair of sleeping travelers? But Frodo could feel his eyes closing; his arm ached fiercely, practically itching with pain, and it hung heavy like a leaden weight. And so, after a moment, he surrendered caution and laid him down at Sam's back. Trusting to fortune, he thrust his hand deep into his pocket and closed his fist firmly about the Ring. After only a little while, he fell asleep.

And it seemed that fortune was with them, for they woke to a brown, sullen morning to find themselves undisturbed. In silence they broke their fast, and Sam took Faramir's advice and made certain they both drank liberally. Then they rose and continued on their way. As they walked, the quiet waxed, grew to be as a third presence in their company, one that stalked and haunted them. As the forest thinned, it grew the worse, and Sam found himself glancing over his shoulder more often than not. What he sought, he did not know, yet some part of his heart whispered that he missed more than sound.

_Well of course I do,_ he told himself, each time he dragged his eyes back to the dim-lit land before them. _Starting with Rose and my Gaffer, and all the others, and pillows and my own mattress, and proper meals, the Green Dragon's beer, my poor daffodils at home..._ For some reason, that last caught in his mind and he found himself worrying about them. _Not but that the Gaffer's right good with greens and roots, but he isn't one for flowers so much. I wonder how he's getting on without me about? Who'll rub his joints when they get stiff or help him with the planting?_ He did not know, and the matter troubled him. Yet despite his worrying which quite occupied his mind, still he found himself glancing back furtively, staring into the gloom, seeking that missing he knew not what.

It was late when they came at last to the end of the forest. It opened out onto a tumble of a slope, onto which clung an old oak, its twisting maze of roots seeming to claw at the crumbling hillside, as if trying to hold it up. "I don't know," Sam said doubtfully, staring down. "Those hills in the Emyn Muil were bad enough, and I'm plain worn out right now. That Grishnákh ran the legs off of me and thinking of climbing down that's fit to make a body cry. Shouldn't we wait 'til tomorrow, sir?" This, as he glanced at Frodo, who was staring not at the unhappily steep descent but out towards the valley. Draped by a thick fog, it lay dark before them, as a shadow in the night, and below, along the hither bank of the stream that bled out of that dreadful valley, ran the road. Sam shivered slightly. "Sir?"

"I do not wish to wait," Frodo said slowly and then paused, never taking his eyes from the misty vale. Sam bit his tongue against the urge to speak immediately. Frodo seemed to be considering something, weighing some decision in his mind, and so he waited, trying to school himself to patience. The sun was fast setting, slipping beneath the reek to cast a red, baleful light over the world that nevertheless failed to penetrate the pall that lay before them. The whole valley seemed to shimmer and writhe as the light mingled uneasily with the vapors, and then vanished as if swallowed. It was a rather queasy sight, and Sam quickly looked away. Beside him, Frodo sighed softly. "I think, Sam, that we should not waste the light. Who knows how long it may last, or whether we shall get any better tomorrow?"

To that, there could be no answer, and so, after a long moment spent glaring at the slope, Sam sighed. "Well then, let's be about it. The sooner we're done, the sooner we rest."

As it happened, the slope was less difficult than it looked, for though it was steep, the footing was most treacherous in the initial third of the descent. But there the tree helped them, for they could hold onto its roots and let themselves carefully down and with better speed than they would have thought possible. Even one-handed, Frodo had less trouble than Sam might have expected, though he kept a hand free himself in case his master should need it. The rest of the slope was loose rock and earth, and with each step, they sank into it, sometimes up to their knees as they half slid down the last of the incline. Nevertheless, despite their speed, it was dark indeed by the time they reached the bottom. Weary as they were, they did not seek far for shelter, but swiftly found a pair of boulders at the base of the slope. Huddled in the narrow space between the incline and the stones, they cast their cloaks over themselves and fell asleep, seeming as stones themselves.

And again fortune favored them, it seemed: dusty as they were, smelling of the earth of that accursed place and hidden from sight beneath their cloaks, the scouts that preceded the army out of the valley passed them by; and when later that night the sound of iron-shod orcs and armored Men woke the hobbits from their rest, when the horsemen who rode in the van clattered by, and the hobbits lay stiff with terror, still, none remarked them. Red eye and ghastly moon, and company from the high tower, they came marching in the gloom. How long that column took to pass, the hobbits knew not, but when at last the rearguard had disappeared, and the echoes of their passage sounded no longer in the gully, a curly-haired head peered cautiously about the rocks and took stock of the setting.

"I don't see anything," Sam whispered, squinting into the night as he craned his neck up the road and then glanced back down it after the army once more. "And I don't hear nothin' neither." With a soft sigh of relief, he settled with his back against the boulders and glanced over at Frodo. "They've gone!"

"For now," Frodo replied, rubbing his eyes as his hand in his pocket clenched tightly. For a time they sat in silence there and Sam hugged himself, rubbing at his arms to ease the gooseflesh raised by thought of how close they had come to capture. _Not another orc march!_ he thought, and shuddered.

"Are they going to Gondor, do you think?" he asked after a moment.

"All their roads lead west," Frodo replied softly, and glanced up then at the shrouded sky. It seemed to Sam that he listened for something, for he cocked his head slightly and let his eyes close. Only for a short while, and then Frodo shook his head sharply and rose. "As ours lead east. We have had our rest. Let us go."

"Mr. Frodo, it's only been a few hou–"

"We have no hours," Frodo replied, voice tight. And without a further word, he began walking, even as Sam scrambled up, wincing at the protests of tired legs and feet.

"It's the middle of the night!" Sam groaned, but staggered after him. _For he's right, you know_ , he told himself, as he hefted his pack and quickened his stride. But as he fell in behind Frodo, he paused and looked back a last time down that road, and he thought of the woods that they had left standing silently behind. _All their roads lead west–west to Gondor._ "Good luck, Faramir," he muttered, then turned and hurried after his master.

***

Dawn came again and was marked only by a slight lightening of the sky to a murky brown. The hobbits followed the line of the cliff, which grew higher as they went onward. The earth was hard and rocky, and though they avoided the road, which had by now crossed the stream, the going proved easier than they would have expected. The land had been cleared, save for a scattering of boulders here and there, and the creeping, stunted brambles that plagued the land. They sought shelter at noon beneath a tangle of them and sipped their water carefully. Exhausted from their night's work, the hobbits fell asleep there, and it was not until the late afternoon that they woke again. Struggling free of the clinging, grasping branches, they trudged doggedly onward for another hour or so, backs bent and eyes fixed on the ground before them.

Thus, Sam was surprised when he chanced to look up, for it seemed to him that the trees had appeared from nowhere. A little copse of them stood before them, but the trees themselves were immense. How they had escaped the merciless axes of the orcs, Sam did not know, though certainly they were not free of the horror of the valley. Twisted, barren branches opened onto the sky, as arms lifted in futile supplication, and passing amongst the trunks, he was reminded of the great pillars of Moria. But no kingly hall did they uplift, though indeed, a king sat there in their midst. In the center of the circle of trees, he sat in judgment of the ways that lay at his feet, it seemed–four roads that ran towards their separate destinies. As the trees, the king, too, sat in torment: headless, marred by hateful hands and time, and the signposts he bore now spoke of Mordor's malice: orc-scrawl and symbols of Mordor had been scratched into the stone and drawn as high as a Man could reach all on his robes and throne.

"Well, here we are," Sam murmured, glancing about. "This must be the crossroads Faramir told us about. Gloomy place." He paused then, staring up at the king as a shiver ran down his spine. "I don't much like it. There's something here that creeps my flesh." Sam paused again, waiting expectantly for Frodo to speak. But no response came, and Sam, grown sensitive to his master's moods, felt alarm rise immediately as he glanced over his shoulder. "Are you all right, sir?" he asked sharply. For Frodo stood by him, clutching at his arm as if in pain, and Sam frowned anxiously. "Mr. Frodo?"

"Run!" Frodo ordered tautly, stumbling towards the statue. Beneath the great, stony sweep of the king's mantle as it fell to one side of his knees, there was a small, sheltered space, and Frodo flung himself down beneath it, there to cower in the shadows. Sam, hard on his heels, had to slither on his belly to join him.

"What is it?" Sam demanded, tucking his cloak about his feet as he drew his knees up to his chest, making himself as small as possible.

"He is near," Frodo whispered, baring his teeth in a grimace. "Very near..."

"Who?"

"Hush!" But even as he said it, a shrill cry broke the stillness of the air, and Sam blanched. Frodo's breath hissed loudly in his ear as the two of them huddled against each other, panting in their terror. Frodo raised his left hand to his mouth and bit down on the knuckles as if to keep from crying out while his right hand clutched Sam's shirt, twisting the cloth desperately. His whole frame was quaking–whether in pain or whether from the workings of the Ring, Sam did not know. But the winged menace did not pause, having other business, and before long, the terror faded. Frodo went limp, releasing him. "It is past," he murmured faintly as he lowered his hand. "He is gone. It is past."

"Are you sure?"

"The Eye looks to Gondor now, and so there he goes," Frodo replied wearily. "He shall not return 'til the battle is over."

"Well there's luck, then. At least for us," Sam replied, thinking worriedly of friends, old and new, now far behind them to the west. After a few moments, though, he unfolded and crawled from beneath their shelter, dusting himself off as he stood. Warily, he looked about but it seemed that Frodo was correct: although he strained his hearing, no sound reached him. With a sigh then, he reached back and extended a hand to Frodo, helping to pull him from their hiding place and to his feet. Frodo was wincing, rubbing his arm, and Sam bit his lip. His master looked now entirely too pale and wan for his liking. _We need a bit of time 'til we get back on our feet_ , he thought. So he slipped his pack off and reached into one of its pockets to fish out a lembas wafer. "Might as well eat a bit, since we are staying here a moment."

"Sam, we must–"

"Now, Mr. Frodo, it'll do us both good. We'll walk the farther for it and after that fright, we need it. Besides, if you're right, then we're safe enough, for our flying friend is off to join that lot we saw last night. Who else would be coming this way? Here," he said, carefully unwrapping a leaf. Then, taking the waybread carefully in hand, he broke it and offered a half to Frodo. "Eat. At least we've good company, it seems," he added, gesturing to the mournful old statue. "A right proper job of guarding the road he's done for us, wouldn't you say? Only right to say thank you, and where there's two, there's enough for three at table, as my Gaffer always says. Even if the third don't eat."

Frodo shook his head, but he held out his hand nonetheless, and even smiled a bit, as he said, "Long may he live, your Gaffer." In silence, then, they ate and shared again a little water from one of their water skins, and it was a marvel to Sam that so little was needed to sate the hunger that had begun to gnaw at his belly. And it seemed to him, also, that he felt a new measure of strength return to him. _I wish I was back in Lórien_ , he thought as he chewed slowly. _But I suppose since I can't be, this'll have to do, thank the Lady for her kindness. If only it hadn't been for that mirror..._ But Sam shook his head and swallowed, then broke off another morsel for himself, determined to remember the by far more pleasant parts of their stay in Lórien.

When they had finished, Frodo reached for his pack, but Sam stayed him. "Before we go farther, I want to see that arm, Mr. Frodo. I know Orothar thought you would be well enough, and he's done his best, but we should be taking care of it better, I think. I'm not Strider to know much about such things, but we've done an awful lot for having run with orcs, and what if you're bleeding again after all of it?"

Frodo grimaced, but after a moment's consideration, he nodded. "You're right, of course. I should be glad that I've not had more trouble. I would have thought that after the orcs..." he trailed off and shuddered slightly.

"Me, too," Sam replied quickly, and began unwinding the bandage. "I suppose Orothar's a better surgeon than we'll ever know. I expect you'd have to be better than most to be in Ithilien. Still, I–bless me!" Sam had fully intended to use a little of their precious water to wash his hands if it were necessary to treat the cut in any way. But now he reached out and ran a grimy finger along the edge of a pale, puckered scar. Frodo flinched, ticklish, but he, too, stared in astonishment. There was no blood, and if the scar seemed new, it was certainly not pink.

"But... that isn't possible!" Sam exclaimed softly. "I've had skinned knees that took longer to heal!" After a moment of dumbfounded silence, he settled back on his heels and shook his head, glancing concernedly at Frodo, who was staring at his arm still. "Not to say that I'm not glad to see you mended, sir, but this ain't natural!"

"No, it's quite unnatural, I fear," Frodo replied softly, lowering his arm. Sam's eyes flicked downward, watching as that hand thrust immediately into Frodo's pocket. "Not natural at all, just as they always used to say back home, when Bilbo was there, and then later. He didn't age, and neither did I; that wound from Weathertop closed too quickly and mail or no mail, that truncheon should've shattered me in Moria, so Aragorn thought. But I wasn't wearing It this time, or holding It: It was in me."

"But surely It hasn't anything good about It!" Sam protested, and Frodo shook his head.

"I'm sure It doesn't have anything good about It. But I suppose that nothing that is can be wholly without merit–even Isildur said It was beautiful, if you remember. Or would you remember? Were you there for that tale?" Frodo asked, frowning as the memory bled out into a dim impression of voices.

"Aye, and for the whole Council," Sam replied, then sighed softly. "I suppose there is that, though it don't make much sense to me. But since you are well, and we've had a bit of a rest, I suppose we ought to be on our way."

They rose, and as Frodo hastily redonned his shirt, Sam folded the old bandage and tucked it into his pack. And after a moment's thought, he shoved the _mallorn_ leaf wrappers in with it, since there was no point in leaving any trace of their passage for enemies to find. Then, because Sam was still quicker than Frodo when it came to such things, he finished buttoning his master's shirt, while Frodo stood staring past him at the statue in whose shadow they had supped.

"Evil mars itself, and so nothing is wholly ruined," Frodo murmured, seeming to think aloud.

"Sir?"

"Is it not strange that they would spare him, even as he is?" he asked, gesturing to the headless king. "Why not destroy all?"

"Too much work?" Sam suggested, eyeing the solid weight of stone as he finished his task.

"Perhaps," Frodo replied, but seemed unsatisfied. "It must mean something!" But he spoke no further, sighing as he turned away to look up and down the road. There was no sign of any living thing, and so, after a moment, he said, resolutely, "Let us go." Sam nodded, then grunted softly as he reshouldered his pack. But ere he left, he cast a last, thoughtful look up at the battered old king, puzzling over his master's words. However, nothing insightful came to him, and so Sam simply turned and followed, even as over the mountains there flickered a red glow, and a muted thunder marked their departure from the crossroads...

_... as from the Silence of the Void there came a Soundless shuddering; the Notes scattered by Dis-chord trembled, and began to Whisper..._

* * *

A/N: "Journy to the Crossroads" hurt me. Lots of heavy reliance on it, particularly for Faramir's speech. Check your copies for comparisons if you are curious.


	29. Underhill

East ran the road for some time ere it changed and plunged south towards a great spur of rock. Frodo and Sam plodded along their chosen path as it looped about that outcropping, then turned sharply east once more as the land began to rise. Frodo was staggering, and inwardly he blessed Sam's insistence at the Crossroads, for without that brief pause and meal, he doubted that he would have come so far save by crawling like a beast. It was as if the Crossroads had marked more than a mere meeting and parting of ways; it was as if beyond them, they had left the world of the West behind and entered wholly into another, where but one will ruled, and their own was an affront to the order of things.

Nevertheless, onward they trudged. The Ring burned in the hand Frodo kept fisted in his pocket about it, and his arm throbbed steadily, as if the wraith's passage had awakened the memory of flesh–ice numbed his shoulder once more, and he wondered if the world were truly so dark as it seemed, or whether, as after Weathertop, it were only his eyes that were so blind. _At least it is not fire yet_ , Frodo reminded himself, chanting it in his mind over and over again as he plodded along beside Sam.

As they walked, that rumbling that had sounded every so often during their march through Ithilien, and again at the Crossroads, grew in volume and frequency. It was as if the very earth complained, and Frodo shivered, aware, suddenly, of its nature. The Ring, he sensed, was calling it, or else was called by it–strange as it seemed, there was an affinity between them, between the song of metal that Frodo had heard so often in his dreams of late and the distant thundering. _Mount Doom._ Frodo was scarcely aware of having spoken aloud, until he heard Sam's concerned voice answering:

"Sir?"

Frodo shook his head sharply, and shuddered as he replied, "The sound. It's the mountain; it's awake." At that Sam sucked in a breath, and dragged his eyes up to the dark horizon before them, to that odd patch of luminous sky just over the mountains.

"I suppose it is. Well, that ought to make it easy to find," he muttered, glancing aside at Frodo then to see what reaction that might get. Frodo merely sighed, too tired to attempt to smile, and unwilling to tell Sam that even were Mount Doom one peak like any other, he would be unable to mistake it.

In silence they walked then, heads bent as they toiled against the heavy sense of dread that lay over the land. Weary as he was, Frodo had eyes only for the path before him, as much of it as he could see. But after a time, he became aware of light on the edges of his vision, and he glanced sideways, wondering what it might be. Even as he did so, however, Sam stopped dead before him, and Frodo collided with a gasp.

"Sorry, Mr. Frodo!" Sam hastened to apologize, reaching out to steady him with one hand even as he pointed with the other. "Look!"

This time, Frodo turned fully and so beheld the horror of Minas Morgul. The Tower of Sorcery rose high above the walls of the Dead City, at once splendid and terrible, and the more terrible because splendid. But the walls of white stone seemed dim; the tower was dark upon the heights. Nothing stirred in Morgul vale, unless it was the fume that rose from the river, and stirred the deformed petals of the pale flowers that thronged the fields. 'Twas they that gleamed mutely in the night as fallen stars, bright over the darkness of the earth, sending up a sickly illumination.

"Don't much like the look of that," Sam murmured, shifting foot to foot nervously.

"Nor I. But," Frodo replied, and frowned, eyes narrowing as he stared at the tower.

"But?" Sam asked, after a brief pause.

"I think," Frodo said slowly, "that the watchers are asleep. The tower is blind, for its master has gone to war."

"How can you tell?" Sam asked, brow knit as he glanced at Frodo.

"It is a feeling in the heart," he replied, without taking his eyes from the tower. "You feel it as well, or we'd not stand here so calmly. Besides, where else would that host have come from?" At that, Sam grunted, and nodded. After a moment more, with an effort of will, Frodo tore his gaze from the city of the wraiths, and turning to Sam, said quietly, "Still, we should not linger. Let us go on."

Past the bridge that led over the river the road ran, and along the stonework that ran beside it they went, and when they found the gap in the wall, and the little path behind it, they took it. Up they climbed, 'til the noisome light of the flowers had faded beneath the brume. Hand in hand, the hobbits walked, fearful of losing each other or making a misstep, as they trod the ledges of Morgul Vale. "Like spiders, Andy, like spiders," Sam was heard to mutter on more than one occasion, and his hand in Frodo's was slick with sweat. Frodo, for his part, clung tightly to it, and not only because the way was dark–the Ring was in his pocket, and his hand itched and tingled, hot amid the ice that deadened the rest of his arm; hot where that band of metal had lain. Ever and anon, longing so deep would well up that it pained him, almost, not to reach for it, and he thought poor Sam's fingers must be crushed within his grip, so tightly did he squeeze. But Sam said nothing, and in silence they continued, save for the occasional mutter from Sam and the seeming mournful groans of the Mountain.

They had crept and fumbled their slow way along a narrow shelf of rock when of a sudden, the way bent, and the hobbits, rounding the corner, found themselves on a flat expanse of bare rock, and the path ran away up into a crack in the stone wall before them. "What's this, then?" Sam asked in a hushed voice.

"Faramir said the way would go up into the mountains," Frodo said, thinking hard to remember that voice from the shadows.

"I don't know as it goes up," Sam declared. "I can't see a thing!"

For a time, the two hobbits stood peering helplessly into the gloom. At last, however, Sam hefted his pack with an audible _clank!_ of shifting cooking gear, and said determinedly, "Dark or not, it's the way, and we're not gettin' no further on it by just standing here." Fingers tightened about Frodo's hand, as he said, "Let's have look, shall we Mr. Frodo?"

Wordlessly, Frodo nodded, and with a deep breath, they walked into the gap, and thus began the ascent of the Stairs of Cirith Ungol.

***

Sam cursed softly under his breath as the rock beneath him shifted, breaking under his weight, and a newly cracked edge dug into his knee. But his breath came so thin and fearful, the words were lost in his panting. With an effort, he lifted his head and peered up into the darkness, sniffling softly and blinking the sweat from his eyes. He could not see Frodo before him; the blood was pounding so in his ears that he could not hear him, either, and only if he reached and found a foot or the edge of a cloak had he proof, even, that he existed. Indeed, so dark was the way that the hobbits, after perhaps ten steps, had had to give up the attempt to walk them. Now, they crawled upon hands and knees, pulling themselves up that steep and ancient way; their knees were bloody, their fingers aching, and every muscle shrieked silent protest as they forced themselves to take the next crumbling stair, and then the next, and the next, in torturous repetition. The sheer walls of the stairwell seemed to close in on them, stifling and oppressive, and over all, the will of that one beat down upon them.

But at last, when it seemed to Sam that he had never known another life than the endless climbing of the stair, suddenly, he heard Frodo cry out softly. "Sir?" he gasped, and heaved himself upward... onto a sudden flat. And no matter how far he stretched his arms, he could find no stair before them. _It's done!_ he thought, dizzy with elation. _We've made it!_ But his elation was tempered by concern, as he felt for his master and found him lying boneless and shivering. "Mr. Frodo?" Frodo moaned in the darkness, and Sam bit his lip, fearful that his master had swooned and would now be difficult to rouse, though he dutifully began shaking him.

And perhaps Frodo had swooned, for he jerked of a sudden, and an arm swept wide, clouting Sam on the ear. Sam let out a yelp, then hastily covered his mouth, for the sound echoed. "Frodo!"

"I'm sorry! But I can't, I can't, Sam," Frodo's voice came back then, in a pathetic whimper.

"Yes, you can," Sam replied firmly, without bothering to ask what could or could not be done. "You must. We've got to keep on going, sir. You said it yourself, there's no choice!" Ignoring his own aching back, he got an arm about Frodo's shoulders and lifted, trying to get Frodo at least back on his knees. His master was a dead weight in his arms, and he thought of how feeble his grip had felt all the long way up the path before the stairs. _And if it's bad now, it'll get worse later. We've got to keep moving_ , Sam thought desperately. Frodo was at least trying now to help, to get his legs under him, and he clutched blindly at Sam's shoulder with one hand.

"You're right," Frodo panted in his ear. "You're right, we must. It's just... it's so dark!"

"We've no wood for kindling, sir," Sam murmured, but then paused, struck by a sudden thought. "Here now, what about that Lórien glass that the Lady gave you? Have you got it still or did that Grishnákh take it?"

"The... glass?" Frodo's voice sounded uncertainly beside him for a moment, but then: "The glass. Yes, the glass. I think... I think it must be in my pack, Sam."

"Hold still a moment, then, and I'll see if I can find it." Slipping out of Frodo's grip, Sam groped in the darkness, fumbling the buckles and ties of the pack until he got the flap open. Then, by feel, he began seeking among his master's possessions. _Cloth... bandages, I think, or else clothing... that's Faramir's little bundle of food for us... metal–knife, I think, yes, that's so...._ In the end, he had to dig deep until he felt the cold smoothness of glass, miraculously unbroken, lying nested in among what felt like Frodo's old vest. _No wonder the orcs didn't find it,_ Sam thought, relieved, as he carefully drew it forth and began the difficult task of refastening the flap.

But when he'd done, he crawled his careful way back around so that he was facing Frodo in the darkness. Reaching, he found his master's hand, and set the glass in it. It glittered dimly, the first light they had seen since leaving the deadly vale below. "Is that it?" Sam asked, disappointed. He could not even see Frodo's face by such light, only the outline of his fingers against the glass.

"Wait a moment, Sam," Frodo said softly, and even as he spoke, the light waxed, grew to a silvery flame that sat at the heart of the crystal phial, as if the star itself were caught within it. Frodo's eyes glinted, and in that clear and constant light, he seemed almost himself–no shadows at the hollows of his cheeks, nor about the eyes to hide and conceal; just the weary, worn face of one in pain yet with still a little hope as that starlight burned bright.

"It's a wonder!" Sam breathed, feeling his own spirits lift. The shadows that had lain across their way wavered, dissolving as Frodo held the light up, and for the first time, they saw their path. Upward it sloped, straight and narrow, plunging again into a crevice in the walls. But now they could see that what they had taken for a crevice was nothing of the sort. It was a door–a rough-hewn passage, which had seemed a crevice only because it was so high and narrow; clearly it had been made for far taller beings than hobbits. And the walls themselves were not mere walls, but a sort of door post, for there were markings upon them to either side of the gap. Old script, written top to bottom, stood neatly carved into the rock, though it was worn now with the ages that had eaten away at even stone. "Is it elvish?" Sam asked, puzzled.

"No, it's something else," Frodo replied, squinting at the runes. Rising then, he moved closer, reaching up as high as he could to touch the bottom-most letter. After a moment, he said, "I think that it must be the old language of Gondor. The old Mannish speech from Númenor, that Elendil and his people brought with them to Middle-earth. Bilbo told me about it once."

"You remember that?"

"Yes, I do recall that lesson, though little else about that day or even when it was, truly. Only I remember that the old tongue of Númenor was more stately, more ancient, and that Westron was changed by it, and that it was changed into Westron–both at once. This sounds a bit like the Common Tongue, and not at all like any elvish speech I've ever learned," Frodo murmured. "They must have made these stairs, the Exiles. A stair to run from Minas Morgul to...."

"To what?" Sam asked.

"I don't know," Frodo replied. "To whatever end a spider's pass leads, and it has spidered, that is certain. Faramir did not know how apt was the name he spoke."

A little longer, the hobbits stood there, shivering in the draft that blew in from the heights, staring at this odd and out of place sign of better times, thinking of their friends far away. _When the way hardens, remember my brother. And if it spurs you, think of us who labor here,_ Faramir's voice sounded in Sam's memory, and he drew a deep breath as he pulled his cloak closer about him. "Well, I suppose I might think a little better of this stair, knowing who made it," he allowed. "It can't be all bad, can it? Who knows? Maybe Elendil himself used these steps. Wouldn't that be a thing to tell of, Mr. Frodo? You and me, on the very same path as Elendil all those years ago?"

"We've been on his path since Weathertop. His, and Isildur's," Frodo answered. Which was not quite as heartening, and Sam frowned. But his master seemed at least less desperate, less wounded when he turned to him, and said with an air of new determination, "Let's follow a little further, shall we?"

Up they climbed, for hours on end, and though the way was much less steep, the hobbits soon found themselves uncertain where east and west were, the road twisted so, winding its way up the mountains. They could at least see, now, and so their journey was made easier, though the chill of the winds that cut through the passage was hard to endure and would've been unbearable but for the grey elven cloaks.

But at long last, they came to the end of the passage. It opened out onto a ledge, which dropped in a cliff on their left and a sheer chasm to their right. The mountains loomed high before them, seeming to rise up to pierce the black clouds above; the clouds themselves seemed to bleed, for a red light flickered at times, casting a dull stain upon their earthward bellies. The hobbits paused there awhile, taking in this forbidding landscape, until finally Frodo said softly, "I think it is time we put the light out awhile."

"Pity," Sam muttered, even as Frodo hid the glass away in a pocket of his vest. But under this more open sky, it did seem a risk to let that light shine forth still. The world seemed very dim indeed as the hobbits made their way forward once more, carefully holding the line between cliff and chasm, picking their way (not always successfully) among loose rock and the dips in the uneven ground.

At length, they came to another wall, and another stair. Sam, standing on his toes and stretching his arm high, felt the shallow groove of lettering cut into the stone once more ere he followed Frodo in and upward. "Tall ships and tall kings," he muttered under his breath, since Mr. Bilbo's lessons were very much on his mind. Like a talisman, he repeated that line to himself, climbing in pace to its rhythm, and tried to ignore his growing feeling of dread as he and Frodo trod that narrow path as it snaked across the face of the mountain, seeming endless.

Finally, however, the stair swerved left, and then suddenly bent at an angle as it ran straight upward until it spilled out into the bottom of a cleft. "Look, Sam," Frodo whispered, reaching out to grasp his hand as he pointed. Sam stared, eyes narrowed as he tried to determine what he saw, for amid the spikes and peaks that the wind had carved and which rose up all about them, he did not at first grasp the significance of what lay before him. But the red-washed sides of the narrow spindle were, he realized, too straight.

"A tower," he breathed.

"The end of the road," Frodo said, with no uncertainty in his voice, though he was panting hard and swaying on his feet from weariness. "We must be careful as we pass."

"I'll say," Sam replied. "But first, let's have a bit of a rest, shall we?"

"No," Frodo said, and shook his head, giving Sam a desperate look. "If I stop, I shan't get up again, I feel. Let's move on a little farther at least."

"If you think it's best, then we can go on for a bit," Sam replied, though his own heart sank at the prospect of still more walking.

And so they did. Bent under their packs, they trudged onward, and soon were fairly staggering. Nevertheless, they did not stop, and each faltering step brought them closer to that tower in the distance. Blindly, they followed the path as it bent towards a great, grey horn of rock, the shadow of which lay heavy across the way. If ever there were a dawn in this darkened land, the hobbits did not see it, for the mountain put itself between the light and the lands west, malevolently denying the travelers the sun, if it were the sun that reddened the sky. A foul wind blew from its heights, and Sam's eyes watered even as he choked on the air. The road plunged onward, heedless of the hobbits' dismay, until it came at last to the wall itself, and there disappeared into yet another crevice, whence came a putrid stench so strong Sam fancied the air wavered with it.

"I thought them swamps stank," he said hoarsely, vainly fanning at the air before his face, gagging a bit.

"I don't like this at all," Frodo murmured, sinking to the ground at last. Hands sought his waterskin, moving almost frantically in the near-darkness and Frodo gulped the water.

"Careful, Mr. Frodo. We've not got much left, and I've not seen any water since we left that horrid vale behind," Sam warned. Frodo nodded, but did not speak, though after but a little while longer, he lowered the skin from his parched lips. Yet he made no move as if to stand, and with a sigh, Sam joined him on the ground before the mouth of the cave. And he allowed himself a drink as well, though far less than thirst demanded. In an effort to fool his abused senses, Sam rolled the water about in his mouth, swallowing only a little at a time. That did seem to help a little, though even water sat uneasily in his stomach thanks to the fume.

For a time, the hobbits sat in silence, utterly exhausted. Indeed, Sam could feel his eyelids drooping, and he struggled with himself, for despite his weariness, his unease was growing steadily with the waning of the hour. The air was still and leaden, as if it, too, were immobilized by some elemental terror, and the stench, too heavy for air, sank into the very earth. All was quiet, as if the very mountains held their breath in awful anticipation.

_And so you shouldn't be sleeping, Sam, my lad,_ Sam told himself sternly. No telling what might happen if you close your eyes. But it had been so long since they had slept–since the gnarled old tree and the passage of the fell army–that he couldn't help it. Though he put his knuckles in his eyes, his eyes drifted inexorably shut, and darkness of a less sinister kind than Mordor's reek crept over him. So it was that it was some hours later Sam awoke, suddenly and with heart pounding, to find that the darkness seemed to have grow more oppressive, the shadows deeper, and the air colder. _Is it night, I wonder? Have we missed day, or does it ever happen in this accursed place?_ he wondered, even as he, groaning softly, rose to his feet. _Oi, my aching back!_ But sore back or no, there was still a long walk before them, and so Sam stooped and shook his master, calling softly, "Wake up, Mr. Frodo. It's time."

With a soft moan of his own, Frodo stirred, and a hand clutched at Sam's arm. "'S always time," Frodo muttered, but he sat up, and with Sam's help, rose to his feet. Together, they turned towards the rock face, and after a moment, a dim light flickered in the darkness as Frodo brought out the star-glass once more. The maw of the cave lay before them, and Sam blinked in surprise, for it was clearly a tunnel, much more carefully hewn than the other passages. "Let's go, before the starlight gets too bright for this place," Frodo murmured, and stepped forward, Sam trailing in his wake. Just ere Sam passed within, he glanced up at the walls once more, at the lettering on the stone. _Following Elendil_ , he told himself firmly, and tried not to think of where Elendil's path had led him.

***

The tunnel wound through the heart of the mountain. Forged long ago, it had been reforged and remade, riddled through with new paths by those who used it after the great days of Gondor, and most especially by the one who dwelt within it. Sam and Frodo could not have known this, of course, but they knew enough to stay upon the main path, which was broad and straight, and to avoid the mouths of branching passages that led to who knew what fate. The star-glass blazed bright, illuminating the way, but even it could not pierce all darkness, and beyond the circle of its radiance, there the shadows held sway, inky and seeming impenetrable. The noisome stench grew, if possible, worse, and the hobbits walked with a bunch of their cloaks pressed over noses and mouths. That helped somewhat, or at least, it kept them from gagging with every breath, but Sam felt sick nonetheless.

The path began to slope upward, and the hobbits bent their heads and toiled along it, chests heaving, and hoping their stomachs would not. Indeed, the scent of putrefaction grew so strong, it seemed that even the light wavered before it, though Sam was willing to admit it might simply be the tears blurring his vision that made it seem so. _What_ is _it?_ he wondered, and then staggered suddenly as Frodo reeled sideways into him.

"Fro...?" he began, but his voice died, as he saw beyond his master a great, gaping void. Larger than any of the other side-passages, the opening seemed, as another once had told it, to be a patch of midnight never cleared away, and a horror came over Sam. For hanging at its entryway, by thick strands of deadly silk, was a mass–a mannish shape it had, and an arm freed from the webbing that wrapped about the legs and body dangled freely. Yes, a body it was, of some nameless unfortunate, yet it was oddly misshapen, as if what should have given it shape and solidity from within had been quite literally eaten out.

Few things hold such horror for the speaking peoples of the earth, whatever their oath or allegiance, as the fear of being devoured, and the mangled mass of flesh that hung before that "door" spoke to that most primitive of terrors.

"Spider's pass," Sam whispered in sudden comprehension. Frodo was quivering beside him, glass in one hand, the other thrust deep into his pocket, and a look of sheer revulsion played upon his face.

"Move! Hurry!" Frodo whispered harshly, and the pair of them ran forward, fleeing the web-shrouded nest of she for whom the pass was named. Forth they staggered, pursued by the shadow of horror, the blood pounding so in their ears they could not hear aught else.

And so it was, as they climbed and scratched their way up the sloping path of the tunnel, that they did not notice until too late the sound of steel-shod feet approaching. Perhaps even had they not been so blinded by panic, they would have been unable to avoid the patrol that came marching, for the echoes in the caverns were deceptive, there being many ways carved throughout the pass–more than Sam and Frodo possibly could know. They knew only that behind them lurked Menace itself, and somewhere ahead lay freedom.

It was only when Frodo was torn suddenly and violently from his side that Sam realized their peril, and he had barely time to turn himself ere hard hands caught hold of him. With a wordless cry, Sam struggled, fighting against the orcs who cursed and clutched at him, even as they ducked and tried to avoid the brilliance of the star-light. "Put it out! Put it out!" one of them howled, and a knot of bodies closed in around Frodo who shouted, inspiring more curses. But the light faded suddenly, and Sam heard the chink! as the glass dropped to the floor. Whether it shattered or not, he couldn't say in the commotion that followed.

For even as the light died, a shriek rose up, and a boil of activity with it. "Frodo!" Sam shouted, wrenching free of his captors, who seemed to be suddenly more fearful of what lay behind them than of what would happen should they allow a prisoner to escape. But Sam, bent on the single thought that he must get his master free and out, plunged heedlessly back towards where he knew Frodo must be, and since the orcs had not had time yet to despoil him of his weapon, he drew it. For despite the danger of perhaps wounding Frodo in the darkness and uncertainty, he was stricken by the conviction that the horror of the pit had come forth at last. And indeed, a hissing, rattling shriek rose up above the dismayed shouts of the orcs, and a hot, foul scent like decay itself stole about the tunnel.

"Frodo!" Sam cried out, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. "Frodo!"

"Sam!" the shout came from his left, and Sam, on impulse, dropped to the floor and crawled towards it. All was confusion. Orcs were running–he could hear them. Others seemed to be fighting, and there was a scrabbling and hissing beyond them to his right that set a chill in Sam's bones. An orc tripped over him, cursing, and Sam whimpered as steel-toed shoes bruised his ribs. His knees, cut and sore from the ascent of the stairs, were an agony to him, yet he hurried towards his master as swiftly as he could.

"Frodo!" he shouted, and cowered as another shriek rang out, along with a hideous orcish cry, burbling and wet. "Frodo!" he cried desperately, seeking his master.

A moment later, he was helped in that task as a bright light flared suddenly to life. _The star-glass!_ he thought, relieved, and hurried to where Frodo sat backed against a wall, glass held high as he stared up in horror. "We've got to go, sir!" Sam said, reaching him at last, and seizing hold of an arm. "Up!"

"Sam!" Frodo breathed, aghast, even as Sam stood and hauled him to his feet. Sam turned at that, and immediately wished he hadn't. The remaining orcs stood huddled together, swords and spears out against the hideous creature above them. A huge, bulbous body on eight monstrous legs stood before them, and clusters of eyes glinted malevolently, even as the spider recoiled from the light.

"Bless me," Sam whimpered, and then turned to Frodo once more. "RUN!"

And so they did, turning and dashing up the tunnel whence the orcs had come upon them unseen. For despite the danger of meeting more of them, at least they could be certain that an exit lay that way, somewhere. But though they fled swift as they could, it seemed fortune ran against them. For with another shriek, the great spider scuttled after them, knocking aside the orcs as a child might thrust aside toy soldiers. For she was no mere hatchling of Mirkwood, but they were hers, who was the last of Ungoliant's brood, she who had sought to devour even the Silmarils. This was Shelob, faithless, heartless, insatiable, and yet as caught as they in webs not their making. For though fearful of the light, lust consumed her, and as it ever had, the Ring called out to it... called through Frodo.

Frodo and Sam dashed headlong up the path, given strength by fear of the slither and shriek of scrabbling claw-tipped legs behind them. Frodo, for his part, felt as if the world had ceased to turn, as if time had slowed to an agonizing pace, and every movement extended itself in time. _No_ , he thought desperately, feeling the pull of the Ring in this distention. _No!_ His ears were ringing–a dissonance that seemed to break upon the world and then... and then. Time unfolded, and yet in Frodo's mind it stood still even as flesh continued its blind path through seconds and minutes, though he felt himself beginning to slow, beginning, perhaps, to think of turning as the world went gold...

What happened next was not entirely clear to him, even afterwards. It seemed to him that he must have tripped. Once more, the light went out, as the glass tumbled from his hand, but Frodo scarcely noticed, for his world was aflame in a blinding golden light. He heard the terrible cry of triumph, as Shelob overtook them in a rush of foul air and heat; a voice cried out, speaking a language that Mordor had not heard since the ending of an Age; and the world itself seemed to shudder in its foundations as Sound broke out. Frodo cried out in pain, clutching his head and curling round himself in a vain effort to block the noise, and then suddenly, all was plunged into darkness.

Consciousness trickled slowly back to life. At first in feeling–a sense of pressure and heat, as Frodo groaned softly. Then came the scent, like sickness on the tongue, which made him cough painfully, and struggle to open his eyes. Blackness at first greeted him, but as he lay there, panting, he became aware of a red light that lifted the darkness to a dim, murderous grey, and of free air that wafted down from above. "Sam?" he croaked softly, as he dizzily lifted his head... and then froze.

Across his path lay the bloated form of Shelob. Fear struck him dumb, rooted him to the spot, as for a seeming eternity, he waited for the beast to turn on him. But as heartbeats counted out the measure of an anxious time, and still nothing happened, realization dawned slowly on him. Shelob did not move. Her great legs were all akimbo, a tumble of armor and joints and claws. All was silent. All was still save the draught from the tunnel's end some ways ahead. _She's... dead_ , he though, amazed. Yet even so, he needed another minute or two before he could bring himself to edge closer, to pick his way carefully about her carcass, ducking under legs and crawling over claw-tips. "Sam?" Frodo swallowed hard, then tried again, a little more loudly, "Sam?"

A soft groan sounded, and Frodo hurried forward, slipping in a puddle of yellow-green, stubbing a toe on a rock and cursing the pain though he did not let it slow him. The great, faceted eyes were still and dark as Frodo passed them by in his haste. For from beneath the head, there stuck an arm, and a curly head as well. "Sam!" Frodo stooped and grasped that arm, putting his shoulder to the monstrous head, and he pushed with all his might, straining to move his enemy just that space enough to free his friend. He felt a shift, and shoved the harder, walking into the spider's bulk, struggling to straighten his knees... .

The head lifted, and Frodo heaved it to one side, then bent to grasp Sam's arms and pull. It was an effort, for still, Shelob half-covered him, but slowly, he began walking backwards, pulling Sam with him from beneath the body of the beast. As soon as they were free, Frodo went to his knees, panting, as he rolled Sam onto his back. And he gasped at the blood staining the other's shirt. "Wake up, Sam! Sam!" he hissed fearfully, lightly slapping the other's face.

Sam twitched, then moaned, and brown eyes blinked open. A moment, they stared, and then Sam said hoarsely, "Thought I'd lost you."

"Oh Sam... no, never yet that," Frodo replied.

"'Twas close, though. The light just... just went out..."

"I'm afraid I dropped it. I don't know what happened," Frodo murmured, taking one of Sam's hands in his and chafing it anxiously. "It was calling to her, calling, and I couldn't–I'm not sure what happened...."

"'S'all right," Sam assured him, and squeezed his hand a bit, though weakly, as he shivered. "You can walk?"

"I can."

"Then it's all right."

"No, no it isn't. You're bleeding," Frodo said, and began to shrug his pack off, but Sam stopped him.

"Don't bother yourself about it, Frodo dear. Got me with her stinger, she did, as she passed over.... Don't think she even meant it, really–just trying to stop. Got her back, though," he said frowning as he let loll his head towards the spider's still bulk. He shivered again, more strongly, as Frodo scowled anxiously.

"Sam, don't be silly, I've got to–"

"Aye, you've got to get on about things, sir," Sam said then, gripping his hand more tightly turning his head back to Frodo again. And he smiled slightly, a tremulously little smile that was marred by a tic, as Sam shuddered and twitched, panting hard. "Least there's no sting this time," he said, much to Frodo's confusion. "Might be good. _She_ got me good.... Never... never liked spiders. Never liked–"

"Sam!" Frodo cried in horror, gathering Sam into his arms as his friend convulsed, violently, though without a sound while Frodo clung helplessly to him. And then suddenly, he went limp. Frodo remained as he was, holding Sam tightly as if to still the tremors that had so recently racked him, but unable to do anything about his own trembling. _Oh no. No, no...._

But that denial changed nothing. Sam did not move again. And perhaps Frodo had grown used to accepting unacceptable things, as Gandalf's face flashed in his mind, and Boromir's. _This task was appointed to you. If you do not find a way, no one will_ , murmured a voice in his mind that would evermore seem as Sam's. Frodo drew a deep breath, and freed an arm to wipe at his curiously dry eyes as he considered what must be done. The star-light was gone, lost somewhere in the darkness behind him, and though the orcs might be awhile before they dared follow Shelob to see what had become of her, they would come eventually. _Time to get on about this thing._

Frodo laid Sam gently down. He straightened his limbs, crossing his hands upon his breast, and on impulse, kissed each eyelid shut before pulling the grey hood over his face. Bowing low, he said softly, "Thank you, Sam. Sleep well."

And then, he turned towards the red light, and began climbing. He did not look back.

_And beyond him, the Whispers joined the Sounding Note, that had sung in the emptiness, and began to weave anew...._

* * *

A/N: Wow. Next up: AU!RotK.

_Like spiders, Andy, like spiders_ –reference is to Fellowship of the Ring, "Lothlórien"

_Tall ships and tall kings_ –The Two Towers, "The Palantír"

_A patch of midnight never cleared away_ –The Hobbit, "Flies and Spiders"

_This task was appointed to you. If you do not find a way, no one will_ –The Fellowship of the Ring, "The Council of Elrond"


	30. Conspiracies Reforged

    Evening was wearing on in the West. In Rohan, the guards paced their rounds upon the walls of Dunharrow, and stood all about the perimeter of the ever-growing encampment before its gates. All about the city, Riders tended their mounts, shaking out blankets to keep the horses from the cold, or joined friends huddled about the campfires, the newcomers mending tack and sharpening blades to the rhythm of Éorl's Ride. And in the kitchens, the cooks tended their pots and kettles, sending up clouds of savory-scented steam as men and women bustled here and there with new loaves of bread.  
  
    "Good day, Master Brandigsbuch!"   
  
    Merry, who had just arrived, waved and gave a smile to Master Fynláf, the rotund head cook of Dunharrow. "Good day, sir. Have you seen–?"  
  
    "The door, there." Fynláf jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the back of the kitchen. Stepping to one side and peering down the rows of cooks and tables, Merry caught sight of a small figure standing upon a stool.  
  
    "My thanks," he said, and received a nod ere Fynláf erupted into a flurry of Rohirric and went hustling off as swift as his bulk would permit after a pair of apprentices. With a snort and a shake of his head, Merry left the head cook to his duties and made his careful way to the back of the kitchen to join his cousin, who greeted him in his inimitable fashion:  
  
"You're late."  
  
    Merry gave Pippin a quick grimace, even as he came to stand on tiptoe and peer over the edge of the kettle that his cousin was stirring. "Another lot of Riders came not a quarter hour ago," he excused himself with an appreciative sniff. And then he winced, as Pippin smacked the back of his hand with his spoon.  
  
    "Keep your ink-stained fingers to yourself, Master Scribe!" Pippin admonished with mock severity, eliciting a few sharp looks from those about him. The frowns, however, swiftly turned to amusement, for the denizens of the Dunharrow kitchens had by now grown accustomed to the ways of the _holbytla_ in their midst.   
  
    "Some good you are to me, if you won't even give me a taste, and me famished. Friends in high places indeed!" Merry replied indignantly, nursing his fingers and also taking the opportunity to sample Pippin's stew off the back of his hand. "I'll have you know I spent most of today tramping up and down this city and its fields for Lady Éowyn and Lord Dúnhere. My tongue's all in a knot, and my head awhirl, and I've a cramp in my fingers that goes nigh up to my elbow!"  
  
    "Why Cousin Brandybuck, I thought you found Rohirric much to your taste," Pippin said innocently, and then deliberately sampled his own concoction, making a show of it. "Hm. That could use a bit of thyme."  
  
    "You try spelling _Heldigsfyrdhing_ ," Merry retorted.  
  
    "Happily, I've other concerns, as you will note. So, are you a cook or a curmudgeon?" challenged Pippin, and grinned when his cousin rolled his eyes.  
  
    "Cook, thank you," Merry replied, snatching the thyme jar out of the spice rack that the Dunharrow cooks had thoughtfully set upon a stool, that the hobbits might more easily reach it. And he sighed as he sprinkled a generous handful into the broth. "I don't mind, truly. Pity, though, that so few read or write–it would have been simpler to have them write their chieftain's name or village out themselves. I suppose it's good luck that so many have a bit of Westron, even if not very much."  
  
    Indeed, it was good luck, and the hobbits were glad of it, else scribing would have been an impossible task. Merry had certainly thought it would be one when Éowyn, trying to find a use for her unusual guests, had first asked whether they were lettered. "Aye, my lady, though not in your tongue," he had replied apologetically to her question.  
  
    "That is no trouble," she had said, and looked to Lord Dúnhere, who had nodded.  
  
    "Nearly all such records as we have in the Mark are kept in the Common Tongue, and we have need of such learned heads and hands as can wield a pen," Dúnhere had said.   
  
    As it turned out, however, the hands that would wield the pen had need of a tongue and ears able to wrap themselves about _some_ Rohirric, and after the very first day of attempting to record the names and numbers and homes of those who had ridden to the Muster, Pippin had given up. "There must be some other chore to be done," he had declared. "I'm not sure whether they're saying fifty or fifteen half the time, and as for the names–! I'd be more help as a camp cook than a scribe!"   
  
Fortunately for Pippin, the Rohirrim were apparently a people to take a man –or hobbit–at his word, and there was a need for cooks as well. Éowyn had spoken with Dúnhere, and that very evening, Dúnhere had arranged for the hobbits to meet with the chief cook of Dunharrow. After some persuasion of a culinary nature, Fynláf had agreed to allow them into his kitchens to help feed the city and the ever greater number of Riders camped on Dunharrow's doorstep. Pippin had quickly exchanged his pen for a hearthpot of his own, and although Merry had persisted in his scribal duties, he, too, came to help in the evenings.   
  
For weary as he was by the end of a day of struggle with the speech of his hosts, he found his spirits lifted as soon as he crossed the threshold of the kitchens. And why not? After so many weeks of eating camp fare and all manner of improvised concoctions, a proper kitchen, attended to lovingly by its cooks, was a haven among havens. Even the careful rationing that prevented any elaborate dishes from being prepared did not dampen their spirits much: cooks were cooks, wherever they might be found, and the solidarity of the spoon (which was passed about regularly, on the apparently universal excuse that one should never allow a dish to go to table untested) was something no hobbit could fail to understand. In all their adventures, such fellowship seemed most like home, and the hobbits were deeply grateful to have found it. It made the waiting more bearable.  
  
For even as Merry dragged another stool over to stand upon, so as to be able more easily to watch their kettle, Pippin glanced round at the men and women of Dunharrow's kitchens, then shot Merry a quick, concerned look. "I don't suppose there's any news from the west today," he said in an undertone, even as he made a show of stirring the stew.  
  
"Not a word," Merry replied.   
  
"It's been three days," Pippin said, anxiously.  
  
"That's not so long a time. It would take that long for them to reach Helm's Deep and turn straight around to come back, or don't you remember what Éowyn said? If they fought even one day, they'd need to sleep and then set out again, and there might be wounded men with them," Merry said, striving to sound and be reasonable.  
  
"Maybe so," Pippin conceded, but just as swiftly asked: "But then why are you out on the wall every morning before sunrise?"  
  
Merry cocked a brow at him. "How would you know where I am in the mornings? You're never awake at dawn if you can help it."  
  
"You're trying to change the subject," Pippin accused promptly. "And I'll thank you to note that I've seen quite a few sunrises since we left the Shire."  
  
"But you wouldn't have, if Gandalf or Boromir or someone else hadn't wakened you," Merry pointed out. Pippin glared at him even as he reached for the salt.  
  
"You're still changing the subject. If they can't have turned round yet, then why are you awake and watching for them so early?"  
  
For all the times when Pippin showed no sense at all, there were, it seemed, an equal number of times when his cousin managed, whether by instinct or reason, to speak straight to the heart of a matter. _I should be glad it's been happening more often lately,_ Merry thought, even as he glanced uneasily round at the Rohirrim. It was simply that he would rather not have to answer that question at present. Unfortunately, Pippin had that look that said he would drag it out of him somehow, and so, with a last quick look to either side to be certain none would overhear, Merry leaned closer to murmur, "It's not me who wants to be up early, it's Éowyn."  
  
"Éowyn?" Pippin replied, brow furrowing.   
  
"Yes. But keep your voice down, Pippin," Merry warned. "Better yet, let's not talk of this here–not everyone may speak Westron well, but if they hear their lady's name, they're more likely to listen anyway."  
  
"But who would understand us?"  
  
"Few enough, perhaps, but you've played that game of whispers–you know how easily things are ill understood from just a word or two," Merry reminded him. For a moment, Pippin looked rebellious, but after a moment or two, he sighed and nodded.  
  
"All right, but I do want to know. Strider did say to keep an eye on her," he said pointedly.  
  
"I know. And that's what I'm doing," Merry assured him. "But we'll talk later. When the evening singing starts, we can slip out. No one will miss us then."  
  
"But I _like_ the singing," Pippin said, and sighed wistfully. Nevertheless, he nodded his agreement. "After supper then. In the mean time, see whether Dame Egwyth will spare you some of those dried mushrooms she has, since you've got so good at Rohirric."  
  
"It doesn't take a word of it to get anything, and you know it!" Merry retorted, but he climbed down from his stool nevertheless.   
  
"But you're so good at _seeming_ to try to make yourself understood. I just look pitiful, but that doesn't always carry the day. Or the mushrooms," Pippin added, grinning now.   
Merry shook his head, as if resigned, but he had to suppress a smile himself as he made for the old woman carefully cutting up carrots. _Mushrooms again_ , he thought, remembering Frodo's and Sam's 'adventure' with old Maggot, whom Frodo had found so unexpectedly kind after his tweenaged pillaging of the farmer's prized mushrooms. _The first of many unexpected kindnesses. And now here we are in Rohan, in a stranger place than the Buckland borders, in a kitchen more homelike than anything I've seen since we left the Shire. Elrond was right–one finds friends in unexpected places._  
  
    Which was why, perhaps, he had continued with the scribing, despite its frustrations, for it kept him closer to Éowyn. Perhaps he would have done it even had Strider not asked them to be watchful, who knew? Merry found he had no answer to that question, but he liked to think that perhaps he might have done so of his own accord, out of curiosity, if nothing else. For Éowyn was unlike anyone he had met before–she'd a way with others that reminded him of nothing so much as one of the mistresses of the Shire's great families, and yet that fell short. Not even Lobelia Sackville-Baggins or Mistress Took of the Great Smials inspired the sort of deference that the men here showed Éowyn, and yet it seemed not to touch her. Indeed, she seemed to Merry almost to be sleepwalking, nigh heedless of the way in which others looked at her, as if they were insubstantial as dreams.   
  
Which was not to say that she had no care for them–although Lord Dúnhere had the governance of Dunharrow, and saw to the daily needs of the city, Éowyn was a constant petitioner on behalf of her Edoras folk and the rest of the Muster, and she and Lord Dúnhere, so far as Merry could see, spent much time trying to find better ways of provisioning and housing all the guests. And when men came in the evening to make their oaths, it was to Éowyn they bowed and pledged themselves, not Dúnhere.   
  
    And she was kind to Merry whenever they spoke, and she unfailingly asked after Pippin as well, but there was, to Merry's mind, a strange note in her voice, or a flat look to her eyes at times that troubled him. He wondered, at times, whether he was foolish to worry over it, whether that something were native to Éowyn or common among women in Rohan. _But Strider said to watch her, and I've not seen that... something... in any of the other women here_ , he thought, unhappily.   
  
And so, when the singing started in the hall that evening, after supper, he was glad to creep away back to the kitchens, to a quiet corner near the door that opened onto the wood yard. There, warmed by the night hearth's flickering embers, and with a bit of free air from the door, they did a bit of rationing of their own; and when the pipeweed had been carefully shared out between themselves, they smoked their pipes and sat in silence for a time, listening to the swell of song. At length, though, Pippin stirred, frowning, and although they had come to speak of Éowyn, he asked worriedly:   
  
"Do you think they're all right?"  
  
"I hope so. At least there's a bit of comfort knowing they've both been doing this for a long time, Legolas and Aragorn," Merry replied, hoping indeed that he would not be made a liar by circumstances.  
  
"But Frodo and Sam haven't."  
  
"No, but Lord Elrond thought they had a chance, after all. That has to mean something," Merry reminded his cousin.  
   
"I just wish I knew _what_. I meant it when I said I wished the Age would hurry and find a use for us," Pippin said, wrinkling his nose and frowning. Merry found himself unable to disagree, and so for a time, they sat silently. After awhile, however, Pippin spoke again. "It's not that I mind lending a hand here, if there's a need for it," he said slowly, as if thinking aloud. "It isn't that. It's just that everyone else seems to know what they're about, and we don't yet. And some others, they _worry_ me with what they seem to be about."  
  
"You mean Legolas?" Merry asked, and Pippin, after a moment's hesitation, nodded.  
  
"Him especially. But I'm worried about Strider, too," Pippin replied, and sighed, blowing out a stream of smoke.  
  
"And Éowyn," Merry murmured, turning to the matter at hand, thinking of that meeting in the hall between her and Éomer and the king's chief warden, and of all he had seen of her since.   
  
"Yes, Éowyn," Pippin replied, blowing out a smoke ring and frowning. "Now that we've a bit of privacy, tell me about her. What is it that has you worried? I thought she was doing quite well."  
  
"Oh, the Muster's in order–as much as it can be, that is. And she looks so calm most days–doesn't bat an eye at anything, but everything gets done. It's nothing to do with finding fault about all _that_ ," Merry replied, waving his pipe about to encompass the whole of Dunharrow and its guests. "But still, something seems wrong to me. I gather there was some sort of trouble in Edoras before we arrived–some trouble between the king and a counselor that no one thought any good of. You remember how we met her? That fellow she spoke of, Gríma? He was the counselor."  
  
"But didn't she say he was a traitor?" Pippin asked, confused.  
  
"Aye, she did. No small trouble, clearly, and the king being her uncle, she'd have as good a reason as any to despise him."  
  
"But he's gone now," Pippin replied, sounding puzzled. "He died. What's the matter, then?"  
  
Merry shrugged. "I wish I knew, but folk won't speak of it, or if they are speaking of it, it's not to me or not in Westron. But something is wrong," he replied, emphatically shaking his pipestem in place of a finger at Pippin. "She's always wiping her hands on something, have you noticed? And she's always the last one to bed." At that, Pippin raised an eyebrow, and Merry, after a moment, admitted with a slight flush, "All right, _almost_ the last one to bed."  
  
"So what's wrong, then?"  
  
"I don't know," Merry said, and stared thoughtfully at flagstones. "But Strider seemed to think there was something brewing about her, too, if you recall. 'Keep her out of trouble', he said, and 'watch her', and so I have."  
  
"Hmmph! He could've said what the matter was, if he were worried," Pippin complained.   
  
Upon hearing which, it was Merry's turn to give his cousin a skeptical look. "We are talking about Strider, aren't we?" he asked, raising a brow.  
  
"Right," Pippin said after a moment, and sighed glumly. "He is a close one."  
  
"Closer than old Bilbo and Frodo ever were," Merry muttered.  
  
"Closer than a wiz–very close," Pippin amended mid-sentence, and frowned again unhappily.   
Merry, however, did not see it, for he had ducked his head against an unexpected well of tears. He did not know, even, why the sudden reminder of Gandalf should strike him so hard, when he had thought he had got past weeping in Lothlórien. But for some reason, the mere mention of the old wizard had wakened to life that grief, and so now he sat blinking in the dim quiet of the kitchen, determinedly puffing out a cloud of smoke to hide his discomfiture. _Stop that, Merry_ , he told himself firmly. _It's no use weeping anymore. If you're worried, then think what to do about it–there's nothing so wrong that nothing's to be done about it, so think!_  
  
Finally, when he thought he could trust his voice, he said, "Speaking of wizards and Frodo, we did read them right in the end. Didn't you say it yourself, back in Crickhollow? Frodo wasn't nearly clever enough for us, nor Gandalf either, in a way. Something always slips out when it comes to secrets. Even for folk greater than we are, things get lost, or we'd not be here at all."  
  
In the near-dark, he could feel Pippin's eyes on him, and after a moment, his cousin asked, "Are you suggesting something, cousin Brandybuck?"  
  
"Only that we have uncommonly busy friends, with uncommonly many concerns, and folk like that often miss what's closest to them," Merry replied in as light a tone as he could manage, raising his head to catch Pippin's eyes. Then, after a pause: "Can you keep up with Strider?"  
  
"If you can keep up with an Elf," came the quick rejoinder. "And Éowyn?"  
  
"Simple enough. Or why else do you think I've kept up the scribing?"  
  
"And those morning walks of yours?" Pippin asked, a hint of a smile playing about his lips now.  
"'The lady will need friends in the days to come'," Merry replied solemnly, doing his best to imitate Aragorn. To judge by Pippin's reaction, it was an entertaining failure, and Merry harrumphed, but wagged a finger at his cousin. "Practice makes perfect, as Sam's Gaffer always tells it," he reminded him, and did not mean only the impersonation of Rangers. Which only made Pippin laugh the more, and Merry smiled, heartened to see that. But despite that, his next words were serious, and Pippin, listening, grew thoughtful, too: "In truth, though, she seems very much alone to me. A sad thing, with so many about her."   
  
"Is there anything I can do?" Pippin asked.  
  
"Well, you could start waking up at dawn, for one. If you want to keep up with Strider, you'd best at least get used to it," Merry replied, and Pippin shuddered. But after a calming few puffs of the pipe, his cousin said:  
  
"Then wake me and we'll walk together, all three of us."  
  
"I shall. Old Bilbo spoke truly, back in Rivendell–we hobbits have got to stick together among all these tall folk or things get out of hand," Merry said.   
  
"I wish we could talk to him now," Pippin said, with a wistful sigh. "If there's any hobbit who knows a thing or two about handling matters, it's him." Merry nodded slowly, as from the hall, there came a high, clear voice–a woman's voice, he realized, the first he'd heard singing alone since their arrival. Haunting and solitary, the melody carried through the halls, seeming to tell of a world of lonely longing, and the hobbits sat transfixed by it. After a time, it died away, and as it did, and a chorus of deeper voices took up the tune, Merry shivered. And then he raised his pipe, as if in salute, and said:   
  
"For absent friends."  
  
"Come home soon," Pippin murmured, speaking to the night without. The hobbits sat awhile longer, smoking in wordless companionship. The songs continued in the hall for some hours, and when at last the singers fell finally silent, Merry stood and gave his cousin a hand up from the floor. Arm in arm, they sought their beds and such respite as dreams could bring before the dawn.  
  


***

   
Smoke was rising above Helm's Deep. The funeral fires burned hot, sending up the ashes of fallen enemies, and the denizens of the Westfold, the women and children who had sheltered in the caves, were at work upon the fields still. So also were the Dunlendings, digging trenches to hold the bodies of Riders and clearing debris under the watchful eyes of Erkenbrand's men. Éomer stood observing them all from the fort's battlements, above the scarred gates, and he felt a terrible sense of relief. Théoden, he thought, had judged very finely the speed of their journey to Helm's Deep, for while it would not do to arrive with blown mounts, he had been unwilling to risk too great a delay, for none knew with certainty what might await them: whether the orcs would still be camped about the walls or whether they would find themselves attempting, with naught but their cavalry, to storm their own keep held against them.   
  
Neither the king, nor Éomer, nor Aragorn had cherished any illusions about what the outcome of such a battle would have been, and so they had been beyond glad to find that the Lord of the Westfold, together with Elfhelm, had held the gates against Saruman's forces. Nonetheless, and despite the advantage that cavalry and surprise gave the king's men, it had been a hard fight after a long ride to sweep the enemy from the walls, even with the help of the besieged, who had forced their way out of the poor, battered gates to pincer the orcs between the _éoreds_. And hardy though Éomer was, two battles and naught between but a grueling ride were making themselves felt in a bone deep exhaustion.   
  
The Third Marshal sighed, then stretched, cracking his back and wincing at the ache across his shoulders, at the protests of stiff tendons and innumerable bruises and cuts, and the pull of the stitches Aragorn had set the night after the battle of Edoras. In the heat of battle, he had felt nothing, unless it were the savage joy of vengeance that had banished even terror, stripping him of all but that singular, exultant desire. But now that the fighting was done, flesh reasserted itself, and he was reminded that after all, men had their limits.   
  
    As if to put a point to that observation, something gold glinted in the corner of his eye, and Éomer turned to find Legolas standing nigh at hand. The elf had shed the light armor he wore to battle, and had even left his bow behind, but a shiver ran down Éomer's back nonetheless. A Rider of the Mark knew that look, and knew well to respect it if he wished to keep his head. War made all men a little mad, but that peculiarly emptied-out look to the elf's eyes ever since Gimli's death went well beyond the fury of the berserker or even the bewildered distraction the prince had suffered when Éomer had first met him. Whether it was some elvish mood or whether it bespoke that fatal loss of heart that often claimed such men in the end, Éomer did not know, and he found it hard to bear the other's presence since the battle for Edoras.   
  
Nevertheless, the Third Marshal steeled himself, and murmured a polite greeting, for whatever unease he felt in Legolas' presence, Éomer was not one to forget a debt. _Théoden might still be the helpless creature of Wormtongue_ , he reminded himself. For that matter, whatever composure he had had when Háma had come to free the pair of them he surely owed the elf after Éowyn's revelations. And so he manfully refused to flinch when, at length, Legolas tore his gaze from the slaughter fields below and those green eyes fixed on him. For a moment, the two simply stared at each other, but then something like pain flickered in the elf's face, and Legolas turned away, leaning against a merlon, folding his arms across his chest as if against a sudden chill. But Éomer saw, too, how he seemed to cradle his left arm in his right; indeed, the elf seemed weary... worn out.   
  
Somehow, that was more troubling to Éomer than even the fearful rage that had carried the elf through the battle before Helm's Deep. Perhaps because he was too honest a man not to recognize a mirror when confronted with one, and the Third Marshal turned away at last, unable to bear the thought of his sister as that frozen, lifeless creature that had come to him from Wormtongue's embrace...   
  
_Enough of this_ , he thought, and sighed. He knew his own weaknesses, and if the bloodletting of the day had not cured him of his desire for vengeance, it had left him feeling... well, _weary_ of it... weary of the need for it. "Thirty-three orcs and seventeen men," he murmured, and wondered how many more it would be ere he was satisfied.   
  
And to his surprise, Legolas replied, "Forty-two orcs, twelve men. And the darkness remains."  
  
"I beg your pardon?" Éomer asked, frowning. But the elf said nothing, seemed, indeed, not to be listening, or at least, not to be listening to Éomer. For he stood with his head canted to one side, eyes shut, as if straining to catch the notes of some elusive song. After a time, Legolas shivered, and blinked his eyes open with a shake of his head.   
  
"I am sorry, did you speak?" he asked then, turning back to the Third Marshal.  
  
"Nevermind," Éomer replied, waving the question away. Darkness, too, he understood well enough after Wormtongue's reign. And then, giving the elf a more concerned look, he asked, "Should you not be with the healers, Legolas?"  
  
"It is an old wound; others are more in need of their services than I," Legolas replied, and Éomer gazed at him in frank skepticism.   
  
"You will forgive me if I disbelieve you."  
  
At that, the elf smiled a little, in that rather unnerving manner that he had recently adopted. Turning back to the field, he stared out at the sunset, as he replied, "Not all pains can be cured by healers; but sometimes those lesser wounds can make the others more bearable." And before Éomer could respond, he added, "Do not worry for me. Forty-two orcs are but a beginning, and if I am to better that tally, I shall need such healing as comes through leechcraft. But I would rather not trouble Aragorn at the moment–he has enough other charges."   
  
For after the battle, Aragorn had exchanged his sword for the healer's scalpel. All captains had a duty to their wounded, after all, though for most, duty was satisfied by a visit and such speech as could be spared when so many needed care and comfort. After a wash and a brief meeting with Théoden and Erkenbrand to discuss the aftermath of the battle and the hour of departure from Helm's Deep, Éomer, Elfhelm and Aragorn had gone to the hospice hall. The wounded were still being brought in great numbers from the fields, and after being pressed into service to aid one man, Aragorn had spoken with the healers and shortly thereafter, joined them.   
  
And although Éomer remained convinced Legolas would have done best to render himself up as a patient to his friend, he replied simply, "Then I shall not trouble you further on that account." And though it was, perhaps, unworthy of him, he could not help but remember their conversation in the dungeons of Meduseld. _He warned me that I was too close to the matter of my sister's honor–I suppose I might say the same of him in the matter of Gimli that drives him now. I wonder, does he still see the danger in that, or has he come simply to accept it, as do all who would pursue vengeance?_ It was on the tip of his tongue to remind the elf of those words. _For he must have a care, surely, for his people in Mirkwood, who should not be deprived of their prince for a private matter such as this_ , he thought, wavering in a most unusual bout of indecision.   
  
But in the end, he held his tongue. The Men of the Mark sang many songs that honored the bond of brotherhood that war forged; there were worse crimes in the world than to cut all other ties for the sake of that bond. And besides, he knew too well that he was in no position to rebuke the elf, prince though Legolas be, when his own shame over Éowyn burned still so hot.   
  
Just at that moment, Legolas stiffened, and leaning forward he raised a long-fingered hand to shade his eyes as he stared intently west. "What is it?" Éomer asked, squinting as he tried to follow the other's gaze. But the sun was too bright, and he blinked the dazzle-spots from his sight as he turned back to the elf.   
  
"The guards on the perimeter have seen something," Legolas replied. "See how they cluster now? Look, others come, and the women and children retreat."  
  
"Béma's blood, what now?" Éomer muttered, but obeyed when the elf waved him silent. After a time, Legolas grunted softly, and straightened, lowering his hand.   
  
"Riders from the west," he said.   
  
    "Keen are the eyes of the elves," Éomer replied, and shook his head in frustration. "I cannot see them!"  
  
    "They are few in number, but the sun's setting has let them draw nigh without notice." With a curse, Éomer turned on his heel and dashed for the steps, taking them two at a time. He was at the gates and had ordered the guard there to join him by the time he noticed that Legolas had followed him.   
  
    "You are wounded, my friend; you ought to remain behind," he said tersely.  
  
    "And you live today because Gimli gave his life. I will not see that gift wasted," the elf replied in a tone that would brook no dissent. "Besides," he added, in a less fierce voice, "they are very few–I should think even taken half by surprise, that the guard upon the field should find them no great challenge."  
  
Despite that assurance, Éomer waited impatiently as horses were brought, and a young lad came running up with a shield and helm and leather breastplate for Éomer, who was quick to strap the latter on. Legolas took a spear from among those leaning against the wall, and then leapt lightly into the saddle of the horse nearest him. Éomer thought he saw irritation flash across the other's face, but it was gone too quickly for him to be certain, and at the moment, he had other concerns than the annoyance of one rider.   
  
With the swiftness of men accustomed to such exercises, the makeshift company formed up on Éomer and they were off at the gallop to join the perimeter guard, which had fanned out into a long line to meet the horsemen. But it seemed that Legolas was correct in his estimate, for even as they approached, the riders were encircled, and as Éomer watched, the lot of them dismounted apparently without offering even token resistance. Which was a relief, for despite his earlier thoughts, Éomer had had quite enough of battle and death for the day. Raising his arm, he signaled the company to slow to a trot, and though all men kept their weapons at the ready, just in case, when they met with the guards escorting the strangers, Éomer saw no hint of tension. Rather, there was an undercurrent of perplexed excitement among the perimeter guard, as one of their number hurried forward to greet Éomer.  
  
"What news, Ceorl?" the Third Marshal asked.   
  
"Strange news indeed, my lord. Some thirty horsemen, in strange garb, come seeking Lord Ælric," the man replied. "Their leader calls himself Halbarad Dúnadan, son of Hirthon." Beside Éomer, Legolas let out a cry of astonishment, and the Third Marshal shot him a sharp look.  
  
"You know him?" Éomer asked.   
  
"I know of him–he is Aragorn's kinsman and lieutenant in the North." The elf shook his head, gazing in wonderment at the grey-cloaked men, one of whom drew his hood back, then, and stood staring at Legolas.   
  
"Let him come forward," Éomer said, and rather than wait on Ceorl, simply raised a hand and beckoned the man to approach. And when he had, the Third Marshal dismounted, Legolas following suit, and went to stand before the stranger. Halbarad made him a polite bow, though he had no qualms about looking Éomer straight in the eye, which suggested a man unaccustomed to bow to many. Yet there was no defiance in the other's look or manner, and Éomer could well believe the man was kin to Aragorn, looks aside. "I am Éomer, Éomund's son, Third Marshal of the Mark. You say you seek the lord Aragorn?" he asked.  
  
"I do, my lord," the other replied, and then gestured to Legolas. "And unless I am mistaken, the presence of one of the Eldar in your ranks suggests he is among you."  
  
"You are not mistaken. But what is your business to him that it needs a company of armed riders to accomplish it?"  
  
"That he shall have to tell us," Halbarad replied, "for we were summoned to join him. Word came from Lothlórien: _Let the Grey Company ride to Rohan, for Aragorn has need of his kinsmen."_  
  


* * *

  
Merry Christmas. Welcome to the AU of book V at long last. Dwim is currently enjoying the sunny weather in California, and has no access to her beloved books. weeps Citations will be rendered accurate sometime in January.  
  
"Keen are the eyes of the elves"–TTT, "The Riders of Rohan", 39  
  
 _Let the Grey Company ride to Rohan, for Aragorn has need of his kinsmen._ –ROTK, "The Passing of the Grey Company", 57  
  



	31. Storm Warnings

The perimeter guard had dispersed once more to take up its proper task, for with the arrival of Éomer and the gate guard, the strangers from the North had sufficient escort for both safety and courtesy. Not that Éomer felt particularly concerned about safety—the riders had forfeited the advantage of their steeds by dismounting, and had walked silently in orderly ranks ever since. Legolas had even dismounted to walk with their leader, and the two had spoken together quietly for a brief time, and although they had since fallen silent, the Elf did not remount and remained with the company.  
  
And so at length, as they came under the shadow of the Hornburg, Éomer, too, leapt down from the saddle and beckoned for Halbarad to join him. For although he was as certain of Halbarad as he had been of Aragorn now that he had had some time to observe him, and to observe especially that Legolas was easy about him—or as easy as ever the Elf was of late—he had still to look to his own people and to what would best serve them.  
  
Thus as Halbarad drew abreast of him, the Third Marshal said, "I thank you for the pains you have taken on our behalf, to reassure me and the men of your good intentions. For my part, I am convinced, but the law still requires me to bring you before the king first, that he may judge you ere I bring you to Aragorn."  
  
The Ranger nodded, seemingly imperturbable. "So be it, then. By happy chance, Legolas rode in your company, and he has told me that my lord is unscathed, which greatly eases my mind in light of this." And here, he gestured discreetly to the bloody field and broken gates. "And he has told me also a little of your first meeting," Halbarad continued, and turned then a wry smile upon the Third Marshal as keen, grey eyes looked Éomer up and down. "Long have I served in the North, and so long since learned of the need for compromises."  
  
"Ah." Assured that they understood each other, Éomer continued more easily then, as they climbed the causeway up to the gates: "Your men will be taken to one of the barracks here, so that they may settle in and await your return. Please ask them to remain there until that time."  
  
"As you wish," Halbarad replied. "And the horses?"  
  
"You may rely upon the _Rohirrim_ to care for them," Éomer said, and the other chuckled softly. And so it was arranged. When they reached the narrow courtyard behind the gates, Éomer sent his escort to stable all the horses and, once Halbarad had spoken with his men, delegated the task of housing their unexpected guests to a pair of guardsmen who stood watching nearby. Finally, he turned to Legolas and said, "Aragorn has joined the healers in the great hall. The king's chambers are upon the third level in the tower—you will know them for Háma has the watch this night." Laying a hand upon the Elf's good shoulder, he asked, "Will it offend princely dignity to play messenger among friends?"  
  
For just a moment, a genuine smile ghosted across the Elf's face, ere he replied, "To be the bearer of good news is beneath no one." And with that, he was away in an instant, leaving Éomer with Halbarad. _Well_ , the Third Marshal thought, as he gazed after the prince, _so he does still feel a little beyond Gimli's death. Perhaps that is something, then._ With a shake of his head, he glanced at Halbarad and nodded towards the keep.  
  
"Follow me," he said, and the Ranger obeyed, falling silently in step with him.  
  
Although the courtyards and lower levels of the keep were busy, filled with people hurrying about their business, as they mounted the stairs of the Hornburg, the halls emptied out, until they reached the quiet of the third level. As always, the Wardens of Edoras had taken up the task of guarding the king, and Háma greeted Éomer politely, though he stared a moment in surprised incomprehension at Halbarad before recovering himself. "A moment, my lord. And you, sir, how shall I call you?"  
  
"This is Halbarad, Aragorn's kinsman from the North. He comes with a company of thirty," Éomer supplied. "I have also sent for Aragorn to join us." Háma raised a brow at that, but he nodded, and then disappeared within the king's chamber to announce the pair. A few minutes later, he emerged again, and held the door open for them.  
  
"The king will see you."  
  
"My thanks," said Éomer, and beckoned Halbarad to follow.  
  
Théoden, divested of armor and clad in simple leathers and a green tunic bearing the livery of his house, rose to greet them, if slowly and rather stiffly, and Éomer tried to mask his concern. His uncle seemed more weary now than he had immediately after the battle, when he had conferred with Erkenbrand and his two Marshals. Éomer might have expected such, for true enough, the real exhaustion of war came only later, but if the Third Marshal suffered from the frantic, desperate pace of the past week, surely his uncle, only just returned to himself and a much older man, would feel that time the worse. Théoden caught his nephew's eye, seeming to perceive his anxiety, and held out a hand to him, which Éomer swiftly took. "I am told you have journeyed far to the Mark, Halbarad. Please sit, therefore. And you as well, Éomer. I need not then feel shame before the young to rest myself," the king said, and smiled. Halbarad chuckled softly at that, and made Théoden a bow ere he replied:  
  
"Many thanks, sire." And when the three of them had seated themselves, Théoden continued:  
  
"We had thought that when Tharbad was lost, in my grandfather's time, that there were no others to the west, save the Dunlendings. Then we heard of Imladris, and now you are come—the world is larger yet than we had thought," he said, ruefully. "But what brings you to us?"  
  
"We received messages some four weeks ago that we should ride to Aragorn's assistance in the Mark, that he had need of us. I brought such men as were available to me."  
  
"And whence came these messages?" the king asked.  
  
"From Lothlórien, sire."  
  
"Dwimordene," Théoden murmured, and glanced at Éomer, who nodded confirmation. "Long have we mistrusted that name, but of late it has been a source of good fortune for us, it seems." With a bemused shake of his head, the king set that matter aside and asked, "Did the message tell you, then, to come to Helm's Deep?"  
  
"Nay, sire. It said only that we should ride to Rohan—'twas chance led us here. Three days ago, we crossed the Fords of Isen," replied Halbarad, and paused a moment ere he continued, his voice hardening a little. "There we saw much that was grievous—fallen Riders with their horses, wargs, Dunlendings, and orcs in Saruman's livery, and the ground still stained with their blood—and so we followed the path of the rout back to Helm's Deep. I had thought it possible Aragorn might be here, and that we were called to aid him against Isengard, but that even were it not so, we might help those who fought here and send to Edoras for relief and also for news. For surely if my lord were in the Mark, someone at Edoras could tell us of him."  
  
"And fortune has conspired that either route would have led you to him," Théoden said and sighed. "Alas, we have not yet tended to the Fords, and that our sons lie among their enemies, exposed to the carrion birds, is a bitter memory. Alas for my Théodred!" Éomer bowed his head, for he, too, had found it hard to hear such news, though he had known of it, of course. But it _was_ a bitter memory, one he preferred not to think on overmuch, unless it were to fuel his rage. When he had spoken with Elfhelm earlier that evening, the other had made the tale somewhat more bearable.  
  
"We would have taken Théodred with us, but he refused us," the Second Marshal had told him. "'Let me lie here', he said, 'to keep the Fords til Éomer comes.'" Éomer had known a moment of shame, then, that he had not been in Edoras to receive his cousin's final command, but fortunately, had quickly dismissed it as a burden he need not carry. _I had my duty as well, and all know it now. And had I not ridden north, I should not have met Legolas or Aragorn or Gimli. But I have, and so I will bring your father to you as well, Théodred, when this war is done. We shall together sing you to your final sleep, and your spirit shall rest the better for it!_  
  
At that moment, a knock sounded, drawing Éomer back to the present—Háma, warning them of new, but expected, arrivals. The door opened then to admit Legolas, and behind him, Aragorn.  
  
Halbarad rose immediately and moved to greet his lord even as the Elf stepped aside. Even knowing that Halbarad was in some degree kin to Aragorn, given the man's manner of speech, Éomer had rather expected Aragorn to receive him as a lord receives his lieutenant. So it was with bemused surprise that he watched as Aragorn, without a word, caught Halbarad up in a fierce embrace, one returned with equal intensity by Halbarad after the manner of dear friends long parted. _Or brothers_ , Éomer thought suddenly, and felt it as a certainty. _Whatever they may be to each other, they are this at least_ , he thought, and felt again a swift pang of loss for the cousin who had been as his brother.  
  
" _Mae govannen,_ " Aragorn murmured, drawing back at last. "Well met in Riddermark. If the king will permit," he added, glancing quickly at Théoden, who gestured for the two to take a seat, even as Legolas wandered over to the slit of a window that overlooked the ramparts.  
  
"I do. Every little makes a muster, as we say in the Mark, and we have need of all men of good faith that may be found in these days," Théoden replied, and Halbarad inclined his head in thanks. "But come, I would hear more of this tale, for it is strange to me that the Witch of Dwimordene should intervene now in Men's affairs. How did it come about?" he asked, and Éomer, too, found himself leaning forward to listen, curious.  
  
"The lady Galadriel sent her tidings north with Gwaihir, to Imladris. Gwaihir is the lord of the great eagles, who see many things and have ever been ready to do the bidding of the Wise," Halbarad explained, seeing that the name meant naught to the Éorlingas. "From Imladris to the Angle came word that as many of the Grey Company as could should ride to Rohan, for our lord required our assistance, though in what way, we did not know, save that we guessed he must have need of swords."  
  
"I have often thought of you on the long journey south, my friend, and it is true, as Théoden King says, that we need every man who will wield a blade, and more need of those who know how to do so. But I had no particular need in mind, save that I would rather face Mordor in your company than in any other's, nor did I send for you." Aragorn shook his head and shrugged minutely. "The lady sees many things, though; she may have foreseen a need for you here that is still to come."  
  
"The more strange is this tale to us, then," Halbarad replied, grimly. "For indeed, we thought it strange when we heard it, for we have no need to ride to war—war is upon our borders, and the Dúnedain have gathered. I have had to strip the Breeland for men, and the word is out in the Wild—return home as swiftly as you may. For Imladris is now surrounded. The High Pass is blocked with snow, of course, but orcs encroach upon the valley's ridges—the Misty Mountains are aswarm in the north. And the trolls have come down from the Ettenmoors to plague the land. I had sent a small company of Rangers to aid in the defense of Imladris, and though they may hold out for long with Elrond's people, in truth, I do not look to see them again beneath the sun." A stunned silence greeted this news, and it was some time ere Aragorn shook off the spell and asked in a low, urgent voice:  
  
"And the Angle?"  
  
"I removed a great part of the women and all of the children to the west—they make for Mithlond, by way of Fornost, with an escort of Rangers to guide them and such men as could be spared from defending the rivers."  
  
At that, Aragorn nodded. "You have done well, my friend," he said, relief evident , though he grimaced slightly, too. "Long have we feared such a day might come. Now it has, we shall have to hope that plans laid long ago shall suffice us. So the lady sent word to Imladris, and then Gwaihir carried it to you. Was that all that she said?"  
  
"Nay, she sent a warning, also, and I fear that it is more ill news, for all of us," said Halbarad, and looked now to Théoden and Éomer once more, including them ere he spoke again: "The lady said: _He feels Its workings. He is moving. The enemy will see Minas Tirith first. Look to the river way._ "  
  
"'The river way'? Cair Andros?" Éomer hazarded, thinking of the myriad orcs that fought their way past the isle's patrols to raid horse herds as far as the Eastfold, and glanced at his uncle.  
  
"Nay," Théoden replied, grimly and with certainty. "The Corsairs. When my father served Ecthelion, ever were the Corsairs a matter for concern. Lately, they have been testing Gondor—the lord Boromir and the Steward's emissaries have spoken much of them, when such business was still discussed in Edoras, that is. If the Corsairs were to strike, much of the strength of the southern fiefs would be drawn off from Minas Tirith's defenses."  
  
"How long could Minas Tirith stand alone?" Halbarad asked.  
  
"I do not know. Not long, I deem," Théoden said heavily. "When the lord Boromir would speak of such matters, it was ever in a round about way—I think he did not know, or else knew too well but did not wish to speak of Gondor's weakness in too stark terms."  
  
"It was the same when I was in Gondor," Aragorn said, abandoning the chair he had just taken to pace as he spoke. "In council, Ecthelion and Denethor were ever cautious not to say too much. But when we conferred in private, it was clear enough that they feared the end of the city should the Enemy attack on two fronts. One could see it in the number of men they desired, in their analyses of defense works. Ever they assumed that when the war came at last, Sauron would seek to overwhelm them; thus whatever Minas Tirith's strength to endure a siege otherwise, it would count as naught. Thus this game of words—the city is strong, even in its final strength, and yet all planning belies that judgment."  
  
" _Doom is nigh at hand_ ," Éomer murmured, and Boromir's stern (and worried) face flashed in his memory. Frowning, he asked: "Then is Minas Tirith to fall, and with it all the House of Húrin?"  
  
"It is not Minas Tirith alone that stands in peril, but all those who oppose the Dark Lord," Aragorn replied.  
  
"True, but surely in this instance, we may say that the rhyme speaks of Gondor especially?" Éomer countered.  
  
"Prophecy is ever difficult to unravel," Halbarad interjected then, glancing from Éomer to Aragorn and then back again. "Let us say that it seems clear that the lady warns that Minas Tirith shall see her enemies ere she sees her friends. But if the Corsairs come _first_ , then it must be ahead of another. It seems to me that what is needed is an army sufficient to take a field held against us, then."  
  
As all eyes turned to Théoden, the king sighed unhappily and shook his head. "Éowyn's early call shall give us a larger muster than we might otherwise have commanded, yet even did we have ten thousand spears, it might not suffice if Gondor's straits were desperate. The bulk of the Westfold's levy was scattered or lost in the battles at Isen and here at Helm's Deep; Edoras and the men of nearby vales, too, have suffered heavy losses. And I must have some care for my own people. I do not believe that we shall have enough to give us the victory."  
  
"And there is still the other matter to consider," Legolas said, speaking for the first time, and Éomer blinked at the sudden, intense and—or so he thought—angry look that Aragorn turned on the Elf.  
  
"Speak more plainly, Legolas," he said, and though it seemed a mild enough invitation, the Third Marshal heard the sharp edge to it.  
  
"The river way may point to many things, but it is not the whole of the message. The Dark Lord feels the workings of Isildur's Bane, and so moves. Perhaps he oversteps himself in his eagerness or alarm, but perhaps he has learned somewhat that may aid him, in which case, our peril may be greater than we are willing to acknowledge," the Prince of Mirkwood replied, turning from his survey of the fields below. Raising a pale brow at his friend, he said: "I do not doubt that the same thought had occurred to you, Aragorn, and to others here. The which being so, let it at least be said. And if Sauron has learned something to his advantage, then doom may well be nigh for us all."  
  
A heavy silence fell, and Éomer found himself glancing between Legolas and Aragorn, sensing an omission, though he could hardly guess what it might be. Whatever it was, it seemed clear enough to him that it was a matter of some dispute between the two: the Elf's green gaze was unbearable as ever as he stared at Aragorn, and Éomer found himself glad he was not its object. But Aragorn seemed unmoved and his eyes had that darkling cast to them that the Third Marshal had seen upon the ramparts of Edoras, ere the battle began. Suppressing the impulse to shiver, he nevertheless felt the hair on his neck stand up, and looked away from the contest, troubled. And so he found himself watching Halbarad, who also seemed to sense that something was amiss. But whether the Ranger had read something more than that, Éomer could not tell, and after a moment more, Aragorn looked away.  
  
"You speak rightly, of course," he replied. "Nevertheless, it does but lend us urgency to think so. That falls short of finding the means to salvage something of Minas Tirith."  
  
"I fear I see no choice but to trust to chance," Éomer said, reluctantly, after casting about for some better answer and finding none. "Even if Minas Tirith rallies Gondor, those levies may not be sufficient for the Mark to deliver her; if the Enemy strikes ere Denethor can even call for aid, then it is certain that we cannot save the city. But surely that does not relieve us of the obligation that Eorl laid upon his descendents, to aid Gondor in time of need."  
  
"Nay it does not; we shall ride for Minas Tirith, that is certain," Théoden confirmed. "If we can do no more than die with the men of that city, then that we must do and hope the while that others unlooked for may join us, and tip the scale."  
  
"If I may," Halbarad said, then, "I have still some other news. I had thought I would speak of it privately, but it may have more bearing on this matter than I had believed." At Théoden's nod, he turned once more to Aragorn and said:  
  
"Master Elrond also sent counsel—no less dark than the lady's, I deemed, and the need less clear until now," Halbarad replied. "For he bid me say to Aragorn: _The hour draws nigh—let Estel remember the Paths of the Dead._ "  
  
 _The Paths of the Dead._ Shock momentarily robbed Éomer of his speech. "Dark words, indeed," Aragorn replied, yet his tone was thoughtful as well. Éomer felt a chill pierce him as he realized the other was seriously considering this folly, and unable to contain himself, burst out:  
"None who go that way may live! The Paths are guarded by the Dead, and they do not suffer the living to pass. You cannot think to take them!"  
  
"Were it not for Elrond, I would not think of them at all," Aragorn said slowly, ere he glanced up at Éomer. "I know well the peril of that road. And yet, perhaps the hour is come at last, and perhaps as Halbarad suggests, the two messages together shed light upon each other. ' _Look to the river way'_ —rather than indicate the Corsairs, might it not suggest the way to salvation? The Paths of the Dead lead to the road that runs from Morthond to Pelargir on Anduin, after all, and a great number of men who can be marshaled."  
  
"They may lead to it, but who shall tread their ways beneath the Dwimorberg? None but the Dead."  
  
"Gondor needs help—"  
  
"And she shall not get it from there. The shades are accursed—they help no one," Éomer insisted.  
  
"And yet we are bidden look to the Paths of the Dead. What other choice do we have?" Aragorn asked, levelly.  
  
"Peace, Éomer," Théoden murmured, laying a hand upon his nephew's shoulder, restraining him from answering. Brown eyes fixed then upon grey ones, as Aragorn met Théoden's searching gaze. At length and without taking his eyes from the Ranger, the king asked softly: "Are you certain of this, Aragorn?" And for a wonder, given the gravity that had held them all since Edoras, Aragorn looked upon the king and smiled—gently, nearly ruefully, and something like tenderness shone in his eyes as he answered:  
  
"I am certain that I must try." Éomer bit his tongue at that, feeling his uncle's grip tighten further. A moment longer, Théoden gazed back in silence, but then he, too, smiled and nodded, as if in understanding. And it was with an air of decision that he replied:  
  
"As you will it, then, and I thank Ælric for his services and release him."  
  
"My thanks, Théoden King."  
  
"What of Gondor?" Éomer demanded, still unwilling to accept this turn of affairs. "Would not her needs be better served if you took this warning to Minas Tirith? As you say, we know not whether the city is invested yet, and if it is not, then Denethor may have time yet to summon the southern fiefs."  
  
"I would send a rider, but I think he would have a better chance of being heard if he were an errand rider from the Mark, who could say also that the Muster will come," Aragorn replied, with a slight grimace. "It would ease confusion and so perhaps spare an hour's explanation."  
  
"The Steward may still ask questions—it is not as if the Mark has had dealings with the folk of the Golden Woods," Éomer countered.  
  
"Then I shall go." At that, all eyes turned towards Legolas. "An Elf may speak for an Elf and need no explanation. And if you give me a token, sire, then I can say also that Rohan comes. As a messenger for the lady, I may say that the warning was well received in Rohan."  
  
"Legolas—"  
  
"You have reminded me this very hour, my friend," the Elf replied, ruthlessly cutting off Aragorn's protest, "that if I would rest a little, wounds might heal more swiftly. Granted, a swift journey to Minas Tirith is not rest, yet neither is it battle, and if any can reach the city ahead of the storm, I can, for there are no faster horsemen in Middle-earth than Elves. And then if fortune is so kind, I shall rest awhile, I promise." Turning then to Théoden, Legolas said, "Give me leave, Théoden King, to bear also a message from you, and I shall see it delivered if it is in any way possible."  
  
The King of the Mark grunted at that, considering the Elf who stood now before him. At length, he sighed, and murmured, "Much do I owe, indeed." With a shake of his head, Théoden rose and reached to lay his hands upon Legolas' shoulders, as he said, "You have served the Mark well, though you are not of our people, nor had we any claim upon you. I may rely upon you to serve us well again in this, then, and perhaps," and here the king smiled slightly, "repay some of my debt to you, Legolas of Mirkwood, who drew me back from Wormtongue's spell."  
  
"Sire?" the Prince of Mirkwood asked.  
  
"Take this," said Théoden, and removed a ring from his finger—an emerald set in a heavy gold band into which the stallion of the Mark had been etched. "Give it to Éowyn when you come to Dunharrow, and tell her that she is to show you the _mearas_ who came with us to that city. You may have whichever of them pleases you best—Éowyn will instruct you in how to approach them—and we shall see how fast an Elf can ride."  
  


***

Business concluded, the gathering dispersed—Halbarad and Aragorn to go and find the barracks where the Grey Company was housed, with Legolas trailing in their wake, though the Prince of Mirkwood wore a thoughtful look, and seemed to have his own concerns to think over. That left Éomer alone with Théoden, and he frowned worriedly as the king sank back into his chair. "Every little makes the Muster, and there goes one—and thirty-one with him—that would greatly help us in a line. That seemed to me ill done, Uncle, to allow Aragorn to pursue this mad errand," he said.

Théoden sighed, then. "Admittedly, it is a dark way that he seeks, and there is little hope there. But not none, or so I deem."

"What hope can there be?"

"The same hope one might have put in the stories of Ents, ere they came to Edoras," Théoden replied, and smiled slightly at Éomer's puzzled look. "It is a tale seldom told, but perhaps it may ease your mind somewhat, my son. Listen: just ere Meduseld was finished, Baldor went riding with his father in the vales about Dunharrow. It was then they came upon the Door, and they found it not unguarded. An aged and withered man sat upon the threshold, and so still did he sit, and so grey was he with years untold that they thought him one of the Púkel stones. They were surprised, therefore, when he spoke to them: 'The way is shut.' And Baldor, looking more closely, saw that he breathed, but only barely.

"'Why do you speak so? And who holds the way against us?' Brego asked.

"'These paths were made by the Dead, and the Dead keep them,' said he. 'The hour is not come when a man of living flesh may go upon them. The way is shut.' And so saying, he died and fell in the dust at their very feet," Théoden said, and then paused a moment, while Éomer digested this tale. "I know not, Éomer, whether that hour is come that the old man foretold so long ago. Yet it may be that the hour that the Elf-lord spoke of is that very same hour when one of living flesh may walk the Paths of the Dead. If that is so, and Aragorn believes it is so and that it is his duty to dare the Door, then I may not hinder him."

"And if he has not read the signs aright?" Éomer asked.

"Then he shall die, even as shall we. Much must be risked in war," Théoden said, and reached then to take his sister-son's hands in his again. "Yet there are some things too dear to us to let go. The art of ruling, especially in time of war, is to learn which they are, and then to hold fast to them. Aragorn must do this—I feel it in him, and he would go whether I will or no. If I care aught for honor, if there is aught of generosity in me, I may not make him an oathbreaker for the sake of a task that any man could fulfill. And in truth, the Mark has but a small claim upon him, and that he gave us at utmost necessity. A necessity," and here Théoden's voice faltered a little, "that should not have been, had I but seen sooner the truth of Wormtongue. Alas, my blindness has cost us dearly, and may now also cost Gondor!"

"We all of us failed," Éomer said then, bowing his head, for the truth tasted bitter upon his tongue. "If only one of us had had the courage to act against Wormtongue openly, the court would have risen and you would have seen, then, Uncle, what we saw but would not voice, save in craven whispers. Rightly did Háma speak when he named us all traitors."

"But we will no more of failure in this matter," Théoden replied, determinedly. "Whatever we may be, you spoke rightly today, that our obligation remains ever the same, and nothing hinders us from accomplishing it." So saying, he reached with one hand to tap Éomer under the chin, prompting him to look up. The old man cocked his head slightly, eyes flicking intently over Éomer's face, and the Third Marshal blinked, amused and somewhat puzzled as Théoden's long fingers tipped his head a bit this way and then that, and then stretched to trace the lines of his face from brow to chin. But when the king spoke it was with a great tenderness: "The past years, it seems I have looked without seeing so often. You are not your father, nor indeed was your father only his reckless rage—I see now that that was a phantasm created by Wormtongue, and that the Marshal you are become tells of the sire renewed and bettered in his son. Still, I have missed much and I would know more of the man I see now. For in truth, it was but a stripling lad I sent to Aldburg."

"Gladly would I stay, and tell you of those years," said Éomer, surprised but pleasantly so. Nevertheless, he frowned worriedly and asked, "But are you not in pain, Uncle? Should you not rest?"

"'Tis not the body alone that needs rest. The pain is not so bad after so many years of feeling nothing. And it will keep me awake to hear you," Théoden replied, with a gleam of humor in his eyes. "Come, stay a time, for I doubt me we shall have any other before we ride east."

Éomer shook his head at Théoden's neat dismissal of his concerns, but he felt a smile spread over his face nonetheless, and despite all that had occurred, despite all the ill news, it was as if something had broken within him—yet it was not the shattering shock he had endured when his sister had come to see him as Gríma's betrothed; rather, it was as if something vital had been loosed once more. _Would Éowyn could be here as well to hear him now!_ he thought. For her pains, she ought to have this time. _But perhaps later... I will give her that time if I can_. And so it was with a much lighter heart that he asked:

"Well, then, where should I begin?"

***

It was simple to find the Rangers, for rumor spread quickly, and Aragorn and Halbarad were soon directed to the proper barracks. The men came to their feet as soon as the pair entered, and then gathered round, eager see their Chieftain and curious as to why they had been called. Aragorn gave them the news and ended with the order to be ready to ride by dawn the next day.  
And then came the hard task. A captain has a duty to his men, and the Rangers were a close-knit brotherhood, despite the lonely ways they often trod, which made duty personal in a way that it was not elsewhere in Middle-earth. Thus Aragorn knew intimately the men and their families, and to listen to them speak of their fears for wives and sisters and children, brothers and fathers and cousins, was no matter of mere hearsay, for he knew also those same wives, sisters, brothers, fathers, cousins and children. Nor had he any easy reassurance for them, although he could at least be grateful that none expected such of him. Nevertheless, glad though he was to see them, and know that these at least were safe (for a little while), he felt exhausted by the time he was able to excuse himself and withdraw from their company for the night.

He was not surprised, therefore, that Halbarad followed him out, nor could he bring himself to tell the other to go back, to rest after a long journey. And so instead, he gestured for his lieutenant to accompany him, and made for the gates, which had been shut against the night. But rather than pause there, he passed them by and went instead to a little postern gate that stood at an angle to them. There was but a single, aged guard there, and after a few moments' scrutiny by lantern light, he bowed to Aragorn. "My lord," he said. "Can I help you?"

"I had hoped to get beyond the walls for a brief time without troubling the gate guard," Aragorn replied. "I shall not be gone long, nor shall I go very far."

"Certainly, my lord. It's safe enough now, I suppose. Even during the siege, we had but the bar across the door," said he, and hastened to lift it.

"My thanks, master... ?"

"'Gamling', my lord. Sir," the old man said politely, drawing the door open, and he waved the pair through.

The door opened onto a little rock-strewn ridge that ran about the watchtower to the causeway. With a sigh, Aragorn leaned back against the tower wall, staring up at the stars and the young, pale moon beyond the ramparts. Halbarad kicked at a stray arrowhead, then settled himself upon one of the rocks, facing his friend. He rooted about in his belt pouch, and a moment later, grunted as he produced a pipe and a bag.

"Here," he said, when he had finished tamping the weed into the bowl, and tossed the bag to Aragorn. "With so many home from Bree and the Shire, pipeweed is plentiful, at least."

"A crumb of comfort, as the hobbits say." When Aragorn had helped himself, Halbarad lit his pipe, and then passed the match—frugality came naturally as breathing after more than fifty years on the Road. For a time, they smoked in silence, and Aragorn could feel Halbarad's eyes upon him. At length, the other said:

"Elrond asked me to give you his blessing, as a father to his son." He paused, while Aragorn sought for something to say in return, but in the end, he simply nodded. Halbarad sighed softly. "I wish I had had better news for you," he said.

Aragorn drew a deep breath and gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Such are the fortunes of war, and Imladris has always stood at the eye of a storm that has waited an age to burst upon it."

"And as you well know, foresight consoles no one," Halbarad replied.

"Yet it may save some," Aragorn said pointedly, as gave the other a searching look. "Did your mother and sister go west?"

"Dírlas did—her eldest daughter is carrying her first grandchild. I persuaded her she ought to be with Telian."

"And your mother?"

"She would not leave," Halbarad replied, sounding resigned. "Many of the elderly would not be moved—they would rather die in their home if it comes to that. That I understand well enough, but I wish she had gone nonetheless. As it is, I am safer here than she is there."

"I am sorry, Halbarad, to take you from her." It was scarcely said than Aragorn regretted it. For Halbarad stiffened at that, and no long friendship was needed to read insult in that sudden tension.

" _That_ was hardly your doing, as well you know, but had it been, the moreso would my place be here," Halbarad replied, angrily, and Aragorn winced. For a fulminating moment, his cousin said nothing, only glared. But then, abruptly, Halbarad sighed, waving a hand to dismiss the matter, as he bowed his head and said, in a much softer voice, "Forgive me, you are weary—more weary than I, and I, too, have misspoken my share the past few days."

"Nay, for the rebuke was well deserved," Aragorn replied, quietly. "All men err, but that was unworthy of me at twenty-five. Weariness can excuse only so much."

"Fortuntely, where excuses fail, there is still forgiveness," Halbarad said. But then he glanced up at his friend again, with worried eyes, and asked, "Since we speak of quarrels among friends, what is it between you and the Prince of Mirkwood?"

"Grief."

Halbarad snorted. "Clearly," he replied, and then leaned forward to tap Aragorn's knee, as he said, with a certain familiar asperity: "Will you at least sit? Thank you. Now tell me what the matter is, for it is clear to me that whatever it is, it greatly troubles you."

Aragorn drew in a mouthful of smoke, letting it out slowly to gain some time in which to think. _Too close to the mark, as ever, Halbarad_ , he thought. _For how shall I explain only a part of this tale?_ He did not wish to tell him the whole truth—of the Song and the Darkness—yet would Halbarad know if he told him a half-truth? If there were any Man who might catch him in an omission, his cousin would be the one to do so. _And to call me out on it,_ he thought, which was in truth the greater risk.

But Halbarad clearly would not be refused in this matter, and in fact, he deserved an answer—not for naught had they bound themselves as brothers so long ago, and beyond that, he was Aragorn's lieutenant, and had a right to expect an answer to such questions as touched upon his captain's ability to command. And so, he replied, "We lost Gimli during the siege of Edoras. It would have been a harsh enough blow, but against all expectation, he and Legolas had grown quite close. For Elf and Dwarf, they were brother dear to each other, and such love is double-edged and often dangerous when loss strikes."

"Say on," Halbarad urged, when he paused.

"There is little else to say—you and I have both seen this before. Of course, I never thought to see an Elf care so for a Dwarf, but—!" Aragorn shrugged and drew on his pipe a bit, ere he continued, "Legolas takes it hard to lose a friend to a death beyond hope of reunion. I should fear for him for that reason alone, yet he is wounded, too, and seems to care little for himself since Edoras, though he swears he has no wish to grieve to death."

"Do you believe him?" Halbarad asked after a moment.

"I believe that he believes his own words, but we all know who walk the Wild what a thin line of difference it is between honoring the dead and making another the means of one's own self-consumption," Aragorn replied, and grimaced as he shook his head. "You know how the tale goes from there."

"Alas, yes," Halbarad sighed, and a silvery stream of smoke filled the air between them. "And what of the others?" he asked at length. "I have eyes, and I note that Gandalf is gone, that Boromir, who searched the banks of the Bruinen with us for the Nazgûl, is no longer in your company, and I see no hobbits, either. What has happened on this journey?"

"It is a long tale, Halbarad," said Aragorn, wearily.

"Then tell me the principle parts of it, so that I shall not make a liar of you to Gamling. The Bearer?"

"He and his servant crossed Anduin some days ago."

"Boromir?"

"Slain on Parth Galen."

"The other hobbits?"

"They wait for us in Dunharrow."

"And Gandalf?" Halbarad asked, and Aragorn did not miss the brief hesitation, nor the note of dread that hardened the other's voice.

"Lost in Moria," he answered, and wished indeed that he had not to say it. A profound silence ensued as his cousin digested the unwelcome revelation. Aragorn, meanwhile, closed his eyes, and resting his elbows upon his knees, bowed his head. And then abruptly, he shivered, as Legolas' accusing voice sounded in memory: _Valar, the darkness sits so heavy on you that I am only shocked by my blindness!_ Drawing a deep breath, he rose and looked up at the walls of the Hornburg, watching as torchlight flickered between merlons as guards paced their rounds, and he wondered whether the Prince of Mirkwood was among them, seeking comfort in the high places of the world. _Take care, my friend, for better blind than heartless,_ he thought, as he went then and wordlessly laid an arm about Halbarad's shoulders, easing down beside him.

After a few moments, his friend stirred, sighing as he emptied his pipe. "Should we tell the men?" he asked.

"Tomorrow," Aragorn replied. "Let them have such peace as this night can bring, and face the ill-tidings rested." They sat together awhile longer, and then on unspoken agreement, rose and made their way back to the postern door. Gamling admitted them, and the two made their way back to the barracks. Although free now to go whither they would, since Théoden had welcomed the Grey Company, most of the men were asleep there, enjoying the rare coincidence of the end of a long journey and no need to stand watch. As they stood in the doorway, watching them a moment, Halbarad said in a low voice:

"There is one other thing, ere I seek my bed. Wait a moment." So saying, his friend crept to the corner where he had stowed his gear. When he had untied the flap, he reached within and soon came up with an oilskin-wrapped, somewhat bulky parcel that had a messenger's tube attached to it. Returning, he handed them to Aragorn. "It seems you are much sought after among Elves," Halbarad said, with a faint smile. "Gwaihir brought this round his neck from Lothlórien."

"From Galadriel?"

"Nay, from Arwen," Halbarad replied. Surprised, Aragorn glanced down at the parcel once more, turning it in his hands. _It feels like cloth_... Curious and with an odd shiver of premonition, he opened the messenger tube and shook the letter out, moving to stand by one of the braziers set nigh to the barracks. Unrolling it, he read:

_Aragorn,_

_Once, after we were betrothed, I was told that the wife of the Chieftain had but one gift for the groom on their wedding day._

_Long has been the secret labor, and the gift is untimely—too late for we two, too early for all others. Yet I send this now, for I believe that fortune may yet render such measures meaningless._

_Fare you well, beloved. Let the stars extinguish themselves, I shall not forsake thee._

_Arwen_

"What is it?" Halbarad asked softly, and Aragorn glanced up to find his friend watching him with some concern. And for an instant, he hesitated caught between the desire to speak and the habit of silence where his heart was concerned. True, he had but recently wished for Halbarad's presence especially, that he might speak a little of desire, but he had not intended to say aught of what had passed in Lothlórien. And yet... ' _I made my choice long ago, and when we promised, then was I your wife in spirit even if not in name.' So you spoke that night, my love_ , Aragorn thought, lowering his eyes to stare at the last line of the letter in his hand, _and also of the need for joy if we are to live at all._

That decided him. And so without a word, he passed the message to Halbarad, who took it and began to read it even as Aragorn untied the string holding the oilskin in place. For although he suspected he knew what it was that lay concealed within, he felt a sudden and overwhelming desire to see nonetheless, to have something a little more tangible than memory of what he would have to begin thinking of as his wedding night.

Meanwhile, Halbarad had come to the end of the letter, to judge by the incredulous note in his voice as he asked, "Aragorn? Does the lady mean to say—?"

"Aye. Look," Aragorn replied. Cradling a mass of sable cloth in one arm, he lifted a corner for Halbarad to see. From amid the folds, silver tracery appeared, brilliant in the ruddy light that spilled over it, fire and water seeming to mingle in those lines that were outshone only where a jewel winked brightly above the half-hidden tips of stylized leaves.

And as Halbarad stared, Aragorn murmured, "So do I bind myself to thee, for as long as my life shall endure. Let the seas rise, let the earth change, let the stars extinguish themselves, I shall not forsake thee. So say I, Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

* * *

  
  
"'Let me lie here', he said, 'to keep the Fords until Éomer comes.'"— "The Battles of the Fords of Isen", _Unfinished Tale_ s, 375.  
  
"[W]e have no need to ride to war—war is upon our border"—cf. "The Passing of the Grey Company", RoTK, 58.  
  
 _The hour draws nigh—let Estel remember the Paths of the Dead_ , and several of Éomer's lines about them, and Théoden's tale of Baldor—"The Passing of the Grey Company" and "The Muster of Rohan", RoTK.  
  
"Much must be risked in war"—"The Siege of Gondor", RotK, 109.  
  
[Once, after we were betrothed, I was told that the wife of the Chieftain had but one gift for the groom on their wedding day. ](http://www.henneth-annun.net/stories/chapter.cfm?STID=2613)—"Standards".  
  
"Let the stars extinguish themselves, I shall not forsake thee."—Yes, I shamelessly recycle my own stuff. This is the Dúnadan marriage vow from _A Reason To Celebrate,_ given in fuller form by Aragorn in the last sentence.


	32. Before the Plunge

Merry woke with a start, and the habit of the past several months had him looking about quickly for the source of his unease. But nothing fearful reared its head—the room Dúnhere's castellan had settled Pippin and himself in was warm and dark, but for the low light of the fire, and if it was not a hobbit hole, still, it was comfortable enough. Beside him in the too-wide bed, Pippin lay, his breathing slow and deep, clearly peacefully asleep.  
  
 _Did I dream?_ he wondered, struggling to recall what was rapidly fading from memory. A fragmented image of a thousand bright points, and a noise like none he had ever known remained, but it was, in the end, quite indistinct. Nevertheless, it troubled him in a vague manner, and as he lay quietly on his back, trying to fall asleep again, he worried over it like a hound over a bone. _Just my luck,_ he thought wryly. After his long talk with Pippin earlier that night, he had thought he might sleep the better for the sense of resolution and purpose that their new-made conspiracy had lent him. Alas, it seemed that no sooner had he laid one concern to rest than something else popped up to trouble him.  
  
And so at length, when worrying failed to yield any insight and sleep still did not come, he sighed softly and sat up. Glancing once more at Pippin, who, as was his wont, had not stirred at all, oblivious to the world, he slid out of bed and after a moment's consideration, pulled his shirt and waistcoat on and grabbed his cloak off the chair. A few minutes later, a small shadow slipped out into the hallway and made for the stairwell.  
  
Back in the Shire, Merry had loved it when he had grown old enough that Frodo or Bilbo would invite him on occasion to join them on their nighttime walks. Striding along the deserted ways of Hobbiton with them, he had always found it an odd sort of thrill to see the town so—as if he were walking through another's home when that other was away, seeing things as they had been carelessly left. Listening to Bilbo's tales of his own adventures as a thief, or simply his amusing stories about the neighbors—never malicious, but simply cast in a way that showed up the element of the ridiculous—Merry had found himself looking at others in new ways, always amazed by how night shed light on daytime faces, how people altered under the flow of nocturnal words and observations.  
  
Of course, Rohan was not home, and by night, Dunharrow was more alien than ever the Shire had been; for it had never been familiar, comfortable, safe, and so by night, if not precisely threatening, it felt flat and reticent. Things here did not speak to him of their owners so readily, and as he stepped out into the inner court, the flicker of the torches on the walls as silhouettes passed before them reminded him that there were places in the world that never truly went to sleep. As he stood there, gazing up at the guards, he caught a glimpse of a white-clad form far above them, up upon one of the watch towers, and blinked. _Éowyn? What is she doing up at this time of night?_ he thought, frowning, even as the pale figure moved away. After but a moment's consideration, Merry made for the tower. _It's not as if I'm getting any rest tonight anyway!_  
  
As he made his way up the tower's winding stairs, he wondered at her. It was one thing to find her up at dawn, taking, he suspected, such peace and solitude as she was likely to get in a day, given the many duties that either were required of her or which she took upon herself. Merry had still not sorted out which were which entirely, only that he had noted enough of the latter to wonder what drove her. But given the long hours she kept, she surely ought to use the night to rest. _I know she is often late to bed, but 'tis past midnight!_ he thought. Surely only the guards ought to be abroad at this hour. _Particularly on so chill a night_ , he thought emphatically, for as he climbed, panting a bit, his breath showed in little silvery puffs. Merry pulled his cloak closer about himself, which proved a wise precaution for no sooner had he emerged onto the tower roof than a wind blew across it that made him clamp his mouth shut to keep his teeth from chattering.  
  
Across the way Éowyn indeed stood, gazing west, garbed in her usual flowing white, but with a heavy, fur-lined green cloak about her shoulders. There were no others about, and Merry hesitated, wondering if he had been wise to come here. She had not asked him to intrude, after all, and for all that she seemed to welcome his presence in the mornings, it occurred to him, in light of his recent thoughts, that perhaps she needed solitude and found it now this way since she could not find it in her morning walks. But if he had thought to slip away, then he waited too long, for even as he considered leaving her to her meditations, she turned, seeming to sense she was not alone.  
  
"Merry," she said, sounding surprised.  
  
"My lady," he replied, making her a bit of a bow. "I thought I saw you up here, so I came to see... I'm sorry if I've disturbed you," he apologized.  
  
"You do not disturb me," she replied, turning back to the west, and after a moment, he joined her there, though a bit cautiously. He had a better head than Sam for heights, but no real desire to look down and see just how far up he was. "Can you not sleep? Is there anything I may do?" she asked him after a moment.  
  
"I just had a bit of an odd dream, that's all," Merry replied. "Can't remember much of it, save the noise and the brightness—like hundreds upon hundreds of candles. I thought a bit of air would do me good."  
  
"Indeed. Do you often dream such dreams?"  
  
"Me? No, hardly ever, though ever since we left the Shire, I've had some strange ones, and also some bad ones. There is so much in the world that is great and terrible," he said softly. "And there are so many sad things, too."  
  
"This one you speak of was one of the strange ones, then?"  
  
"I think so, yes. It isn't that I woke up frightened, but just... I felt odd," he replied, and shrugged slightly, before glancing up at his tall companion. "What of yourself? Do your dreams keep you up?"  
  
"I do not dream anymore," she replied, and something in her voice told him that blessing though such might seem, she did not count it so.  
  
"Oh. Then I suppose they wouldn't trouble you," he said, a bit ridiculously, and sought some less awkward subject. Alas, words failed him, and so they lapsed into a rather heavy silence, both of them staring into the darkness, thoughts quite evidently elsewhere.  
  
 _Are you sleeping?_ Merry thought to the night, envisioning Legolas and Strider walking distant battlements, or else pacing the edges of a slumbering encampment. _I hope so. And I hope your dreams are better than mine. And that the wind isn't so cold where you are, or the ground too hard. And that you are near._ And that they were well. That above all. The journey could take a month if it meant he would see his friends come back hale, which, given his impatience to see them again, Merry thought was rather magnanimous of him. _Of course, we need you sooner than that—things happen in the world, and Frodo and Sam are out there somewhere..._  
  
"I wonder where they are now," Merry said and sighed. Beside him, Éowyn's breath caught audibly, and she bowed her head suddenly, much to his surprise. And perhaps it was a trick of the light, but she seemed to his eyes to grow even paler. Did her lip tremble? Merry cocked his head anxiously. "My lady?" No reply, but were those tears...? "Éowyn?" he asked, in a more uncertain tone. Still no reply, and in the face of her grief—shockingly evident in one who had 'til now seemed a very rock in a river of tumult—Merry was appalled with himself. _She's her uncle and brother to lose at Helm's Deep, after all, and Théoden such an old man, and so recently recovered. And I'm always telling_ Pippin _to have a little consideration!_ "I'm sorry, my lady, I didn't mean to—"  
  
But before he could finish, Éowyn shook herself, looking away as she wiped quickly at her eyes. And she grasped his hand in one of hers, then laid her damp one atop it, chafing his between her own two for a moment. _Or else wringing it_ , Merry thought, concealing a slight wince, for Éowyn's hands were neither smooth nor dainty, and as he'd had occasion to remark before, considerable strength lay in those slender fingers.  
  
"Do not be," she said softly, and gave him a small smile, still tearful despite her efforts. "You have been very kind to keep me company lately, Merry. Very kind."  
  
Merry flushed and shook his head. "You've nothing to thank me for, my lady. We're the odd men out, I suppose, you and me and Pippin, us being hobbits and you a woman in the middle of all these Riders," Merry replied. "We've _got_ to stick together, then, and keep everyone else out of trouble." _To say nothing of ourselves_ , he added silently, but decided Éowyn did not need to hear that.  
  
For her part, Éowyn's eyes remained downcast, and her grip had slackened. And it seemed to him, in that moment, that she was as the sick man who, having suffered his worst pains in the midst of his fever, awakens to find himself no longer possessed by them, yet the sufferer still, and subject to a deeper ache and exhaustion that leave him wondering whether he will be himself again. _And if not, whether he will find much to miss in the man he was_ , Merry thought, gazing up at Éowyn.  
  
Moved to a sudden, deep compassion born of that insight, he dared to reach up and pat her hand. "It will be all right, lady. You'll see," he said quietly, but with an earnestness that surprised even him. Certainly, Éowyn seemed startled; blue eyes widened, and her lips parted slightly, as if in astonishment.  
  
 _Or as if she would speak_ , Merry decided, noting how her chest stilled on an indrawn breath. For long, she remained motionless, and her gaze grew distant, or else turned inward, and Merry found himself holding his breath. Finally, however, she spoke, and when she did, it was from that other space, wherever and whenever it might be: "I would you were right, Master Brandybuck. I would I could believe that you are right." She paused, and he sensed she struggled with herself, and for a moment, he thought she would lapse back into silence. But then: "Tell me something, if you will, Merry. Tell about your home. I know I have asked you before, these past few mornings, but... tell me once more."  
  
And such was her tone, that Merry, normally quite willing to speak of the Shire at the drop of a hat, found himself hesitating. No mere inquiry of politeness, this, nor, he thought, a simple change of subject. _What is she looking for from me, by asking this?_ he wondered, fearful of saying the wrong thing. _The wrong thing! I wish I'd more practice in this, but I suppose the Shire doesn't lend itself to heavy talk, even in heavy times._ Robbed of speech, he asked instead, hoping for some hint of what it was Éowyn was truly after, "What would you like to hear about, my lady?"  
  
"Anything you like. Or no, tell me what you love best in your Shire," she replied, changing her mind at the last moment.  
  
"What I love best? Well, there are so many things to love, 'tis hard to choose," he temporized, thinking furiously of afternoons spent on the Brandywine, or singing in the evening after the spring planting was done, or stealing his mother's berry tarts. Of Bilbo telling stories before the fire, at Bag End. Of his mother and father, and lying out on the grass with them and any number of cousins, watching the wandering stars shoot across the night sky in the summer. _Nightly wanderers... nightly wanderings..._ Memory and the idle thoughts of the past hour coalesced, and took on a different cast in that moment, as his thoughts strayed once more to the darkness beyond the walls, and friends at peril, perhaps, where none could see. Strider's words in _The Prancing Pony_ came back to him then with force enough to make him shiver: _They will come upon you in the wild, in some dark place where there is no help._ Some dark place, far from home and helping hands, where the night showed nothing, but instead swallowed murders...  
  
"I think," he said slowly at last, speaking with great care as the very words seemed to unfold for the first time in his mind, "I think it's the nights in the Shire that I love best. Not that hobbits are much for being out at nights, unless there's a birthday party or some other celebration. And it's not that I like the nights for their own sake, although I do love to watch the stars fall in August, and I really loved walking with Bilbo and Frodo at night—just the three of us, seeing things no one else did, because everyone else was indoors.  
  
"But... I liked the nights in the Shire, because you _could_ like them, if you know what I mean. Now that I've seen a bit of the world, and even the elven realms, lovely as they are, I don't know if I would've found much to like about the night sky outside the Shire, knowing what I know now, and seeing how there are always folk watching the darkness for danger. It's not like that at home, not really, and I miss that. I truly do," he finished quietly, and glanced up at Éowyn, who was standing still as a statue.  
  
"The Shire must truly be a peaceful place," she said at length. Then, after a brief hesitation, she finished, in a voice so soft Merry could scarcely hear her words: "I fear I should be quite out of place there."  
  
"I don't know why you would say that, my lady. Well, I suppose you are a bit tall, but you'd be welcome should you ever go there," Merry replied gently but with certainty.  
  
"Perhaps. But I am a shieldmaiden—born to a troubled land and a restless people, and ungentle in my ways. I think I would be ill-suited to your land, though I would be glad to find otherwise," she replied, and closed her eyes, seeming unutterably weary of a sudden, though still she did not bend nor let shoulder stoop, which only made that exhaustion the more incongruous.  
  
"Then glad you should be, for it _is_ otherwise. Perhaps, my lady," Merry ventured to suggest, "if you slept on it awhile, you might see things differently in the morning."  
  
Éowyn snorted then, and gave him a wryly amused look, the first real humor he'd seen from her since they had met. "Think you so, Master Brandybuck?" She shook her head, but then: "I should rest for a time, for I am weary," she admitted. "And dawn shall come soon; we must be ever ready, who watch the west. One never knows when the king may return."  
  
With that, they left the tower together, hand in hand still as they made their way down. But as they came at last to the door that opened onto the court within, Éowyn paused, ghostly in her white as she looked gravely down upon him, and reached to take his other hand. "I am not unmindful of the care you take of me, though you try to hide it," she said then. "And I... am very grateful," Éowyn said, a bit awkwardly for the slight quaver in her voice. She paused, drawing a deep breath as she sought to master herself once more. "Only, say nothing of this to my brother, please, he is already too solicitous and should be unbearably more so if he heard I had said any such thing!"  
  
At that, Merry, chuckled. "Well, he _is_ your brother," he remarked. But then he sobered. "My lady," he began, and then stopped himself with a shake of his head. "Éowyn, I do not know what troubles you, though plain it is that you are greatly grieved by some dark care. I'm only a hobbit, you see, and the world is very wide and you're very tall, if I may say it, and given all that, I'm in over my head and no one to take a brother's place. But friends aren't brothers, and they've always an ear open for each other." He paused, frowned, and then said, "What I mean is, if you ever think I could be of help, then it's nothing I'd not do for a friend. For any friend."  
  
Éowyn was silent a moment, before she said softly, "Thank you, Merry. Good night." And with that, she flowed away, leaving Merry quite wide awake in her wake, watching after her.  
  
"Rest well, Éowyn," he said at length to the empty space where she had been. "Rest peacefully."  
  
  


***

He heard him before he saw him. At so late an hour, all others in the Hornburg had gone to their rest, save one, and Legolas had been content to wait upon his return. Indeed, he had been glad the other had stayed away so long as he had. It gave him time to think, to compose himself and consider his approach. Nevertheless, the night was growing rather old, and the Prince of Mirkwood had wondered idly whether he might not find himself in the ironic position of lecturing Aragorn over endangering himself and others by ignoring exhaustion. He wondered what Aragorn would make of the irony, whether it would amuse him or merely irritate him. And he wondered which he himself would prefer.

There was, however, but one way to find out, and so as the Heir of Isildur passed by the little alcove where Legolas stood waiting, he said casually, "I had thought your lieutenant would have sent you here sooner." It was a rare thing to see a Ranger so badly startled, and in other circumstances, Legolas would have laughed aloud, as Aragorn whirled, instinctively putting his back to the corridor wall, knife already to hand before Legolas had finished speaking. However, this time, the Elf merely raised a brow as he stepped forward, and, eyeing the knife, observed, "Weariness hinders our judgment, and can lead to costly mistakes, after all."

By then, Aragorn had recovered himself, and with a glare for his friend, resheathed his dagger. "So it does. The more reason for Elves not to skulk in the shadows—the Rohirrim tell tales still about the netweavers of Dwimordene, after all." For a moment, he stood gazing intently at Legolas, and then he sighed. "What is it, my friend?" he asked in a much less terse tone.

"There are matters I would discuss with you, some concerning the Steward of Gondor," Legolas replied. "And while I am sorry to keep you from your rest, we shall not have time tomorrow."

"True enough. Come then," Aragorn replied, and the Elf fell in at his side. And as they walked, he eyed the messenger tube stuck in Aragorn's belt, wondering whether Galadriel or Elrond had sent any other news that Halbarad had not seen fit to tell. _But that is not my affair,_ he thought.

"How is your shoulder? I did not see you in the hospice hall," Aragorn said as they walked, glancing aside at him.

"It need not concern you," Legolas replied.

"Then you did seek out a healer."

It was one of Aragorn's irritating habits to put things in such a manner that there was little room for misdirection. But rather than sigh over it, Legolas said simply, "No. And it is not your concern because you are weary, and because I do not suffer unduly. Let us not speak further of this."

For an instant, Aragorn seemed as though he might protest, but after a fulminating moment, he shook his head. "As you wish, then," he replied, even as they reached the door to his chamber. Someone had been by to light the lanterns in the wall sconces, so they had not to fumble about in the darkness. Legolas glanced about as he closed the door behind himself. It was small—none of the rooms in the Hornburg were overlarge, it being a fortress before all else, and with so many camped within its walls, both soldiers and citizens, all men found themselves somewhat displaced. But small though it was, it had a bed that was not a cot and it was private—both considerable luxuries at the moment.

Aragorn undid the clasp on his cloak with one hand, and dropped the garment carelessly onto the bed. The messenger tube he laid in with his pack, and a moment later, he had done off the heavy sword-belt and set that carefully atop the nightstand. With a sigh, he stretched his arms overhead and turned to Legolas once more.

"There is not much room to sit, but wherever it please you," he said, lowering his arms.

"Pity there is no window," the Elf replied, after considering and rejecting the low stool in one corner. And so he settled instead upon the bed, while Aragorn leaned back against the wall opposite him, arms folded across his chest, one leg crossing the other at the ankle.

"Indeed," he replied. Then: "You said you would speak of the Steward and some other matters. Speak then, for," and here a glint of humor did finally show in the other's eyes, "I do not wish to test my judgment tomorrow."

"Good news for us all," Legolas replied, and then considered Aragorn closely a moment. "I have thought of how I might present matters to the Lord Denethor. As concerns the quest of our Fellowship, I deem Elrond's counsel wise still, that secrecy is needed more than confidence. Although I know nothing of the father, and would not speak ill of the son, I own Boromir's actions do little to convince me I should speak to the Steward his father of our business." Aragorn said nothing, though he nodded, and though Legolas sensed that it pained him to hear this, he did not feel the other was offended. _And perhaps I do him an injustice to imagine he would be. 'Twas he who learned of Boromir's fall at the edge of Boromir's sword,_ he thought.

"I had thought to say simply that I bore a message from the Lady Galadriel to Rohan and to Gondor," he continued, "and that King Théoden had lent me a horse of my choosing to take also a message to the Steward without sending a man of his own. That, I think, he will not question. But if I seek to remain in the City after I have delivered my message, then I doubt not he would wonder at it. So, I ask you, since you have served with him: what is his likeliest answer if I do not leave? How will he react?"

Aragorn bowed his head, seeming deep in thought, or else memory, and after a time, he pinched the bridge of his nose, then rubbed at his temples, as if in some discomfort ere he replied, slowly, "The Steward of Gondor is not a man to be easily manipulated, particularly where Gondor is at stake. He is not one to countenance secrecy in others if such secrecy touches on matters of the realm." He lowered his hand then, and met Legolas' eyes, as he said, "He will certainly question you closely if you remain in the City, and it would not go well, for you will find none more keen-sighted in all the South Kingdom."

"Would he mistrust an Elf where the Enemy is concerned?" Legolas asked.

"He would not need to, for your ends would not match his own, and that he will not accept," Aragorn replied.

"Were I to plead injury and a need to rest, would he accept this?"

"He would, if he found nothing else to rouse his suspicion. However," Aragorn cautioned, before Legolas could respond, "even when I served in Gondor, Denethor had many ways of learning what he wished to learn. He oversaw Gondor's spy rings for years, and even while Ecthelion lived, there was some question, among those of the high circles of the City, whether Denethor had not more men and means devoted to such purposes than he told in council. Since I left Gondor, rumor has made much of the sharpness of his insight, and 'tis said he has surprised no few with knowledge they had thought secret from him. It is no easy thing to lie to him or even to misdirect him, for it is difficult to guess what he may know that may set him on your trail. And once set, he is as the proverbial wolfhound."

Legolas considered all of this thoughtfully. "And you do not believe these later rumors are... exaggerated?"

"No, I do not."

The Elf eyed him shrewdly, noting the grim tone, and remembering also Boromir in Imladris, his pride in Gondor and doubt of Aragorn. It all took on a different cast, hearing Aragorn speak of the man's father, and after a moment, he asked, "How bad was the blood between the two of you when you left Gondor?"

At that, Aragorn gave a soft, wry snort, though his eyes held not a glimmer of mirth when he replied, "We did not part well."

Legolas grunted softly. "So: Lady Galadriel, in her wisdom, sent a warning to Rohan and Gondor, and sent Rohan riding to the assistance of Minas Tirith. As I traveled south from Lothlórien, I was wounded, but had little time for proper care, being in a great hurry. King Théoden allowed me a mount of my choosing if I would send word to Denethor that he will come. And if Lord Denethor will permit, my duties completed, I would remain for awhile to recover before I return to my lady, assuming the Enemy permits. Were you Denethor, would you find aught in that to make you suspect me of omission? Or what question would you ask in his place that might put me in the unenviable position of lying to him?"

For a time, Aragorn said nothing, standing with his eyes closed and his head tipped back as he considered this. At length, he shrugged and looked back at Legolas, and said, "He may wish some token or proof that you are of the Galadhrim, for you wear no livery. But I can think of nothing else at the moment, I fear."

"What of the message she sent? Is there aught in it that would uncover she spoke to you, and not to Théoden or Denethor?" Legolas asked.

"You have heard the message."

"But is it writ so? Halbarad had left some things silent, after all," Legolas replied, and then paused, seeing Aragorn's incomprehension. Which concerned him, for it was not like the Ranger to overlook the obvious. "The message—that she wrote, and which you had with you when you came in..." he prompted, and of a sudden, the other's face lightened.

"Oh. Nay, Legolas, that was not from Galadriel—the lady sent her message by word alone, even as Halbarad delivered it," Aragorn replied, seeming at once amused, but also... _Embarrassed?_. The Elf could not decide what that peculiar emotion was that flickered in the other's eyes as Aragorn bowed his head after a moment, in an effort to escape, apparently, Legolas' scrutiny.

"But the case is from Lothlórien, that is plain enough by the workmanship," Legolas said.

"Aye, it is. And you may have the case if you are willing to forge the letter. Even after so many years as Men measure time, I would not trust my hand not to give you away to Denethor," Aragorn said, the silence in that speech giving Legolas cause to wonder what that note had been. But since his friend clearly was unwilling to speak of it, and since he had no time to spend upon the question, Legolas let it drop, saying only:

"Then I shall do my best; one diplomatic note is much like any other," he replied, and rose to depart.

But Aragorn gave him a sharp look, and said, "I thought you said there were other matters than Lord Denethor you wished to speak of, Legolas."

"There were, but I should not keep you so long," Legolas replied. Aragorn raised a brow.

"Perhaps you wish to take that messenger tube with you? Take it, if you truly wish to use it," he said. "Just remove what is in it."

Legolas blinked, surprised. Not that Aragorn should let him use the case, but that, after taking some pains to say nothing of the contents, he now suggested Legolas handle them himself. _And so you think he would be justified in suspecting you of reading private messages had you the chance?_ the voice of conscience asked wryly. Were he a Man, he might have blushed over that, but he was not, and so he simply went and retrieved the case from Aragorn's pack. Pulling the cap free, he carefully shook the letter out, and resealed the tube. Then, unsure what Aragorn would have him do with the letter, he glanced over to the Dúnadan, who pushed away from the wall and came to join him... and so blocked his path to the door, coincidentally. Legolas raised a brow.

"I would take my leave of you," the Elf said, as he handed the scrolled paper to him, and then waited upon a response.

"I know you would." Aragorn paused, gazing meditatively upon the letter that he turned now in his hands. And to Legolas' even greater surprise, suddenly handed it back.

"Why?" Legolas asked, making no move to accept it.

"Because it seems to me that of late we have been too much in the habit of giving each other grief," the Dúnadan replied in a low voice. At that, Legolas' jaw clenched as those words touched a sore spot between them; but after a moment, he took the letter in hand, retreated a pace and, with a final glance at Aragorn for permission, unfolded it and read.

A short message it was, and Legolas, unfamiliar with the ways of the Dúnedain of the North, was uncertain at first that he grasped what was said. It seemed no letter alone had come to Aragorn out of Lothlórien, and he wondered what the gift was that went with it. The last line certainly seemed that it ought to mean more to him than it did, but although the Elves of Mirkwood dealt little in the high matters of the Bardings or of the Dwarves, confining themselves mainly to commerce with them, Legolas was a prince not untutored in the art of politics, among which arts, that of reading between lines was not least.

Which was why his head came up in the snap of an instant as the import of the message sank in, and after staring at the other in some shock, he set the letter aside on the bed, and seized Aragorn's shoulders tightly, drawing him close. Thoughts awhirl with astonishment, he gazed intently into the other's eyes. _It cannot be... surely not!_ "But I cannot see it in you!" he exclaimed after a moment's intense scrutiny. "And it does not sound in your voice, either."

"Marriage is not so discernible in Men, Legolas," Aragorn replied, with a slight smile. "Surely you know this!"

"But you bonded to an Elf..." He trailed off as all the consequences unfolded before him. "Valar," he breathed. Then: "It is nearly a month since we _left_ Lothlórien! Why have you said nothing for so long?" he demanded.

"In truth, it simply had not occurred to me that this was anything to be shared until tonight. It was not... planned," Aragorn replied, and with that one word, in all its taut flatness, Legolas understood then how things must have happened, and casting his mind back over their stay in Lothlórien, he swiftly came to a conclusion.

"That first night in the lady's care, when all of us were so grieved, you stayed away 'til dawn."

"Aye." Lowering his eyes, Aragorn took a step back from Legolas and sank heavily onto the bed, elbows leaned upon his knees, hands clasped together. "I was raised by Elves, but I have been long among my own people, and we would not call that a marriage—in secret, without any vows, and against her father's will in the matter. Why should I speak of what was done without thought?"

"But Arwen is—"

"—fortunately the wiser of us. I fear I have not been a very good husband to her; indeed, given the circumstances, I do not think I could have thought myself so before tonight," Aragorn admitted, giving Legolas a wry half-smile. "She made her will plain enough that night, and I could not hear it for what it was. But now her choice is clear, and so is mine, and that being so, why hide it? At the least I would share the news with my friends."

"I see," Legolas replied, digesting these words. And admittedly, he owned himself a bit ambivalent still over the whole affair—for Elf to wed Man, it was no small thing, and though it had not happened among Legolas' people, no one was unfamiliar with the tale of Lúthien, which had seemed to him always a great tragedy in many ways. But then again, he could not think wholly ill of a union that had led down the wastes of time to the friend before him, and after a moment, he moved to touch the other's shoulder. "I am glad that you told me," he said quietly. "And I wish you the long joy of her, and she of you... for all our sakes."

"Thank you," Aragorn replied, and for the first time since Moria, his smile was utterly sincere, without a hint of irony or sadness or wry humor, and for a moment, something of that light in him shone through the shadow of recent days. But his eyes were grave still, and he looked searchingly at Legolas, and the Elf sighed softly, realizing that the other was not through with him yet. But as he slid down the wall to sit across from the Dúnadan, Legolas arched a brow at him and said, with a faint air of reproval:

"I see that even the giving of good tidings has its ulterior motives."

Aragorn snorted, but he did not deny it. "The affairs of the world are not shaped to one end only, and princes above all others cannot forget that. I would have told you tomorrow had I not seen you tonight; indeed, I've to tell my own men tomorrow, and not simply because they deserve to know their Chieftain has finally wed. It does not lessen my desire that you should know because I would have you be so honest with me in return, any more than it lessens my desire that they should know simply because they have a right to know this."

"And on what matter would you have me be honest with you?"

"Speak as you had intended when you accosted me this evening, and do not worry about the candlemarks," Aragorn replied, and his eyes now were dark with concern as he gazed at Legolas.

It was Legolas' turn to bow his head, as he reconsidered what he had thought to say earlier. For in light of Aragorn's words, he found he had no desire to revisit griefs at the moment. _But we cannot set them aside without airing them_ , he thought, and so nodded. "Very well. But before I do, I have need of some plain answers from you." He lifted his eyes and sought Aragorn's, and when he had the other firmly under his gaze, asked: "Do you believe that there is any chance that the Quest shall succeed in light of the Darkness foreseen?"

At that, Aragorn was silent for a very long while, though his gaze did not waver. Finally: "For myself, I do not believe that there is. But neither may I say that I know this."

"But you believe it. And believing, you will still play it out until the end."

"Yes."

"And what do you suppose lends you will enough to do this?" Legolas asked, his gaze growing very sharp as he pinned Aragorn with his stare. And when no reply was immediately forthcoming, he reminded him, "A plain answer, Aragorn."

"Some questions do not lend themselves to plain answers," the Dúnadan replied. "But as plainly as may be, it is because of Arwen, who, as I said, is the wiser of us."

"So you will ride into Sauron's very arms for her sake?"

"For her sake, but more for her wisdom—we do not live without some joy, even under this doom you and I foresee; since I am alive, it behooves me to act as one living should. Beyond that," he continued, "I am here, and I am, without my willing it, Isildur's Heir in this space of time, among these people, and no other can say this. Therefore I will do what is asked of Isildur's Heir, as Aragorn, to do, because it is mine to do as best I may. And perhaps that, too, is a sort of joy, though different from all others."

"I see," Legolas replied, with a sharp nod. "Then for your honesty and my own, hear my answer. For myself, I do not believe there is any chance the Ring will be unmade. But I _will_ say I know it, for this Darkness does not seem to me to be that of an even-handed fate, ally of lurking hope. It is not an accident; it is now the one end of the Song as I see it, and we do but dance to its broken tune. All that we do shall be made to serve that end. So I see it.

"Nevertheless, your lady wife is wise indeed, and we find such joy as can be had, in order that we may say at least that we left nothing undone when the end comes. For the moment, joy, or its pale cousin, comes most oft to me in the deaths of those orcs that destroy the better form of joy—our friends. Therefore I ask you not to contest vengeance in this instance, for it makes me useful since all our roads lead to battle and the planning of the same. For a prince without his people, in this space of time, who has made himself a follower, there is little other purpose."

He paused, and then asked, "Do we understand each other?"

Aragorn did not reply at once, and his face was troubled, but eventually, he nodded. "I believe so."

"Then I am satisfied," Legolas replied, smoothly rising from the floor. Aragorn stood as well, and they walked to the door then, Legolas tucking the messenger tube into his belt. "Rest well, Aragorn. I shall see you on the morrow."

"Until then," Aragorn replied, opening the door, and the Elf slipped out into the corridor. But he had gone only a few strides, when he was obliged to stop. "Legolas," Aragorn called softly after him, and he half-turned to see the other standing in the doorway. "Thank you," was all that he said, and the Elf blinked as the Dúnadan turned away then, and the door shut behind him.

A moment longer, Legolas stood there in silence, ere he turned and slowly made his way down the hall, in search of paper or parchment, ink, wax, a bit of seasoned wood, and audacity enough to sign Galadriel's name. And when he had found all that he needed—a rather lengthier task than he would have preferred—he went with a lantern up to the highest point of the Hornburg—to the platform where the king's banner hung limp in the night. The guard there gave him a curious look, but upon recognizing him for the Elf in the king's company, let him be.

And so Legolas sat awhile, thinking carefully ere he set pen to parchment, and as he thought, he plied a small paring knife over the wood, cutting away the corners to make a circle and then turning his attention to the surface, into which he began to cut the design he remembered with precise strokes. Long indeed had it been since any Elf of Mirkwood had had speech with the denizens of Lothlórien, but there were still records in his father's library, fortunately, and some of them from Galadriel that he had read long ago. He only hoped that Denethor had not any such convenient source of comparison, but there was no help for it—such a letter could not be accepted without a seal, after all.

The sky had grown a dim grey before Legolas took up the finished letter, scrutinizing it carefully. Then, after blowing gently upon it one last time to be certain it was dry, he rolled the parchment up and inserted it into its borrowed case, and then descended from the heights. Baggage, bow, breakfast, and his horse were seen to in short order—indeed, the stable lads and several Rangers were already busy in the stalls, and one of them had seen to saddling his horse, much to his disappointment.

"You would lose time stripping tack at every station," said a voice at his elbow, and he turned to see Aragorn standing there, looking much improved for a few hours' rest.

"True enough," Legolas acknowledged, as he strapped his pack behind Arod's saddle.

"Courier posts are set every twenty-five miles, hard by the road on the south side."

"I noted them as we rode from Edoras," Legolas replied, and Aragorn grunted.

"And the letter?" he asked.

"A pretty forgery, if I may say it. Let us hope it convinces Lord Denethor," the Elf replied, giving the straps a final tug before he turned to face Aragorn. To his surprise, he found the other holding out yet another letter to him, which, after a moment, the Elf took. Brow knit with puzzlement, he turned it about in his hands: there was no name upon the front, and the wax bore no imprint of arms, but in the fashion of those of lesser means, signs—or in this case, letters—had been traced about the seal: _thúle, rómen, anga, lambe_ , one at each quarter, as if marking a compass. "What is this?" he asked.

"Should your scribing fail to convince wholly, or should Lord Denethor ask whether you had any companions, give him this," Aragorn replied, with a slight smile. "Only give him the letter and say that you were bidden give it by one who joined you on the road south. Other than that, I can think of no question he might ask that you could not answer truthfully with safety, nor any answer that would keep him from seeking further."

"Ah." Enlightened, Legolas tucked this latest missive into his scrip which held also Théoden's token. Then he reached and clasped arms with the Dúnadan, who squeezed back firmly as grey eyes sought green.

"Go carefully," said he.

"And you as well." Legolas paused, searching the other's face a moment. "Until Minas Tirith?"

"Until then. Take care, my friend," Aragorn said, giving him one final squeeze before he stepped back. And Legolas swung up into the saddle, taking a moment to settle himself as well as he could in the infernal device ere he clucked his tongue at Arod. The horse tossed his head and, obedient to his master's will, walked down the aisle, out the stable doors, and into the morning air. The sky was brightening over the ramparts, sending long morning shadows westward, and since the yard was yet relatively empty, Legolas touched his heels to his mount's sides. " _Noro lim!_ "

With a snort and a whinny, Arod surged forward, swift as his name made him. Glancing back over his shoulder towards the stable, Legolas caught a glimpse of a tall figure standing in the doorway there, hand raised in farewell ere the road bent towards the gate and hid him from view. The gate guard let up a cheer for him—whether out of custom or thinking that with him went news of victory, he knew not, nor even if they recognized him as not one of their own. And just as he and Arod clattered down the causeway and onto the greensward, the first rays of the sun came streaming over the mountains, setting all the eastern sky afire.

With a cry of challenge for the red dawn, Legolas set forth for Gondor.

* * *

  
  
_They will come upon you in the wild, in some dark place where there is no help._ —"Strider", FOTR, 162


	33. Departing Dunharrow

Noon was an hour gone when the sound of hooves thundered up the steep ways of Dunharrow. Merry, busy scribing, cocked an ear at the echoes, but quickly returned to his own business. He had work to do, and by the sound of things, it was a small company that approached. A _very_ small company...  
  
"Hildric of Aescing, in the Westfold. He brings fifteen with him," Greta was saying as Merry returned his attention to his scribal duties. He flashed a brief smile up at the stout older man that his newfound companion introduced. Hildric gave him a nod, but otherwise said nothing, and stared down at Merry with some puzzlement. Beside him, Greta grinned unabashedly at the other's confusion, and Merry felt a surge of mirth at the sight that needed at least to be hidden, lest Hildric take offense. He bent hastily over his ledger.  
  
He had come by Greta's company by sheer good fortune. The young man's _éored_ hailed from a great fortress-town in the Eastfold, Aldburg. His captain, a rather imposing, blunt-spoken fellow named Éothain had taken one look at the hobbit, cocked his head at Merry's labored, broken Rohirric, and then, without art or artifice, had asked in the Common Speech:  
  
"How does it come that you are given such a task as this, Master Holbytla, when you cannot speak our tongue?"  
  
"The lady's kindness, and that I can write. I get along well enough, sir—so many of your folk have a bit of the Common Speech, even a stranger can manage this sort of work," Merry had replied.  
  
"You get along, eh?" the man had grunted. Then, without taking his eyes from Merry: "Greta!" he had beckoned, and a lithe young man with bright eyes and an inquisitive air about him had looked up from a conversation with his horse. Handing the reins to a companion, he had loped over, making his captain a salute before turning curious eyes upon Merry. Éothain had laid a heavy, gauntleted hand upon the Rider's shoulder and said, "By your leave, Master Holbytla, I would see you do better than 'get along'. Greta here has got a smooth tongue in his head—too smooth, I should say—" at which Greta had broken into a startling grin that had had Merry smiling back, unable to help it "—and I am sure he shall not miss stable duties. Take him with you."  
  
"Well, if you're certain, captain—" Merry had begun, but Éothain had waved a hand, cutting him off.  
  
"I have the Third Marshal's _éored_ with me, and several smaller companies from the towns and villages about Aldburg, and that is no few to order. Take him! Return him when you are done with your duties for the day, and I think that many captains may find themselves better and more speedily served than if you came to them alone. And in serving us well, you will serve the lady better, Master Holbytla."  
  
And that had been that. And if Merry had wondered whether Captain Éothain had been seeking an excuse to be rid of the young man and his too-glib tongue, Greta had in fact been quite helpful. He seemed as easy with the Common Speech as with his own, switching between the two with an enviable ease, and Merry never once had difficulty understanding his accent. Though different from Boromir's, it was yet close enough to make little difference to his ear, and he had always found Boromir's speech pleasant. The young man had given him the numbers of his own company—one hundred and twenty Riders, replenished, Greta had confided, after some losses—and then begun taking him round to the commanders of the smaller companies that Éothain had gathered, in order that Merry might record their names and homes and numbers. He did not seem to resent the duty at all.  
  
"They say that we Rohirrim are mad about horses," the young man had said, as they had walked toward the next group of Riders. "'Tis true enough, but I do not love them for the hay they soil." Merry had laughed at this, and Greta had chuckled. And his new companion had glanced down at him then to ask, "Are you truly as the commander said, a _holbytla_?"  
  
"So it seems, for so I have heard often lately, though we call ourselves 'hobbits'," Merry had told him, and the young man had repeated this a few times to himself, seeming almost to taste the word.  
  
"A good name," he had finally pronounced, with an air of decision, causing Merry to laugh once more.  
  
"Are you certain you do not mind helping?" Merry had asked, then. "There are still many other small bands that I have not yet spoken with today."  
  
Greta had shaken his head. "The commander said I should help you. You would not have me disobey my orders?"  
  
"Well, no..."  
  
"Then I do not mind. Besides, I had never thought to meet a hobbit."  
  
Merry had smiled. "Then I am very glad of your help, Master Greta."  
  
"No master am I!" the young man had declared. "Greta is good enough."  
  
"Then if you would, please call me Merry, for really, I prefer it." They had shaken hands, and with that, stood no more on any ceremony, and with Greta's help, the morning had gone far more smoothly and quickly than it might have.  
  
And so as the sentries began crying challenges to the newcomer, Merry, who was just blotting the ink dry, glanced up at his companion, wondering who rode in now. _Surely there cannot be many more,_ Merry thought. Greta, though was gazing south, head canted slightly as he listened, and his expression was puzzled.  
  
"Who are they, do they say?" Merry asked.  
  
"There is just one Rider, and he comes swiftly indeed," Greta replied. "A messenger of some sort, I guess."  
  
"A messenger?" Merry repeated, feeling his heart speed suddenly. _Could he be one of Théoden's men?_  
  
"Aye. So it seems. But bide a while and you shall see him, for he shall be here shortly," the other said.  
  
And indeed, it was not long afterwards that a horse and rider heaved into view, the horse coming to a quick stop, wearily tossing its head as the rider dismounted. The sentries, who had formed a loose half-circle about him lowered their spears, apparently recognizing him. Merry, for his part, narrowed his eyes and leaned forward a bit, trying to get a look at him. As the guards drew back, the man, who had taken his pack from the horse's back, began walking towards the keep, beckoning the horse along in a clear voice that sent a jolt of recognition though Merry, and his eyes widened.  
  
"Merry? Are you ill?" Greta asked with some concern, as the hobbit paled.  
  
"Legolas!" Task forgotten, Merry dashed across the way, dodging Riders and horses, heedless of Greta following after him. "LEGOLAS!"  
  
Hearing his name, the Elf paused, turning towards them, and then seeing who it was, hastily changed course. "Merry," he said, frowning as he knelt down before the hobbit, and he laid a steadying hand on Merry's shoulder. "Are you well?"  
  
"Where are the others?" Merry demanded, dreading the reply.  
  
"On the Road," Legolas replied. And then he smiled slightly. "You need not fear. Our friends are unhurt."  
  
"Oh. Oh, I thought... well, that something had gone wrong," the hobbit finished, with no small relief. But then it was his turn to frown as he looked the Elf up and down. "But why have you come alone?" he asked.  
  
"I have an errand to Gondor that will not wait," Legolas said, rising then, and he nodded to Greta, who bowed in response. "Where is Lady Éowyn?"  
  
"She may be with Dúnhere, up in the keep," Merry replied.  
  
"Very good. Then I shall take my leave."  
  
"But wait! Why are you going to Gondor?" Merry asked, catching the Elf's cloak.  
  
"War is upon that land. The Lady Galadriel has tidings the Steward ought to hear, and I am the swiftest rider. I am sorry, Merry, but I cannot tarry—if you ask Aragorn when he arrives tonight, you may hear all the news then," Legolas apologized. "A good day to you, and take care!"  
  
"But—"  
  
It was useless, however. The Elf was already gone, jogging up towards the city, his horse following obediently in his wake. Merry bit his lip, staring after him. _War in Gondor? Now? Soon? And a message from Galadriel?_  
  
"He seems much improved," Greta remarked then, startling Merry.  
  
"What do you mean?" he asked, glancing up at his taller companion.  
  
The young Rider shrugged. "When we encountered him and the Lord Aragorn and the Dwarf near the downs, the Prince of Mirkwood seemed as one under some evil spell. 'Twas said he was wounded, and he did carry his left arm close."  
  
He shook his head, brow knitting in some perplexity, as he continued after a moment, "But this is a strange tale, plainly! Both his and yours. I had meant to ask you later, when we had done, how you came to be in the Lady's service, and now I find you are friended by an Elf! By _our_ Elf, at that."  
  
"It is a strange tale—a long, very strange tale," Merry said, and then sighed. "I suppose," he said reluctantly, "that we should return to our chore. Later on, perhaps, we can speak further of it." So saying, he turned slowly and made his way back towards the encampment. But though he scribed and strove to seem interested and diligent in his work, his thoughts were preoccupied with a far different question from those he had to ask the Riders:  
  
 _How am I to keep up with an Elf if he's in Gondor?_  
  


***

With Merry's words in mind, Legolas made his way up the crowded paths of Dunharrow, wishing just once to find a city not filled to overflowing with refugees. His horse he had left by the city gate, with orders to find the stables, and then he had headed for the inner keep, where surely someone would know where to find Éowyn.

"The lady confers with Lord Dúnhere," said one of the guards there, when he had answered their challenge. "They are in the great hall, my lord prince."

"Take me thither, then," Legolas replied, and after a moment, the guard had glanced at his partner, and then beckoned the prince to follow.

And so he was led through narrow, high, tapestry-swathed halls to the great doors at the heart of the keep. These were open, and within, bent over a table that was set beneath the windows to catch the light, were two figures: one dark to his eyes, the other nearly lost, it seemed, in the sunlight that poured in through the windows, a glimmer within the gleam. The Lord Dúnhere was speaking in a low tone, tracing a line on what seemed a map. The Lady of Rohan nodded, but then stilled, and cocked her head, as if some distant sound had caught her ear; then swiftly she turned, her eyes fastening on Legolas.

"My lady Éowyn," Legolas murmured, as her eyes grew wide and he sensed a dread, twin to Merry's, steal through her. And so he hastened to say, "I bear greetings from the king and your brother, and a message."

"From Théoden King?" Dúnhere repeated, straightening.

Éowyn was less patient. "What message from my uncle?" she asked, even as Legolas approached.

"In brief, King Théoden sends his greetings to you, and says his messenger has need of a horse," Legolas replied, pausing to produce the token Théoden had given him. Éowyn received it, holding it up in the light, as Dúnhere moved closer to examine it as well. "He said you should show me the _mearas_."

At that, Dúnhere gave him a sharp, surprised look. "The _mearas_? What message do you bear?"

"One for Lord Denethor's ears, my lord," Legolas replied, without taking his eyes from Éowyn.

"My lady?" the Lord of Dunharrow asked, glancing down at her, for Éowyn still held the ring, and she frowned slightly as she gazed upon it. But:

"Of course, if Uncle wishes you to see them, I shall take you to them," she replied.

"Lady Éowyn, the Prince is a stranger, and you recall how—"

"Please Dúnhere," she said then, even as she handed the ring back to Legolas, "if the message is so urgent, we should not argue the choice of mount, since Uncle has already decided the matter. I will show Prince Legolas the herds and return when he has found a horse suited to him. Come with me, my lord prince."

With that, she swept out of the hall, Legolas in tow, leaving the Lord of Dunharrow staring after them both. "This way," she beckoned Legolas down an eastward hall. "They have taken to a meadow hard by the keep."

"My thanks, lady," Legolas replied. But then, with a swift glance round to be certain there were none to overhear, he asked, "Is everything well in Dunharrow?"

"Pay Dúnhere no heed," she replied immediately. "He means no harm, only he worries for the horses, for the last time a stranger rode one of the _mearas_ , the horse returned wild and would permit none of us to approach him too closely. But tell me," she continued, and now turned a troubled look upon him, "why have you come, Legolas? And with so strange a request! Why does my uncle not send one of his men to Gondor? Messengers we have aplenty!"

"The message is not wholly his," Legolas answered, and then explained briefly the ride of the Grey Company and the tidings they had brought and the counsel their news had inspired. Éowyn listened silently, and when he had finished, as they left the keep and stepped into the open air, she nodded slowly.

"And when did the king say he would set forth?" she asked at last.

"He should have left an hour after I did, although you will see Aragorn and the Grey Company first no doubt—by nightfall, I should imagine," Legolas replied.

"I see. The Paths of the Dead..." Éowyn trailed off, glancing west over the walls, towards the Dwimorberg that loomed nearby. A slight shiver ran through her, and she quickly averted her eyes. It was a brief moment of discomfiture and swiftly banished, and Legolas was struck once more, as she lifted her chin and quickened her pace, by that unapproachable reserve. But he did not remark upon it—he knew it for what it was, after all. _All we broken creatures of the world,_ he thought, mournfully.

Beneath the walls of Dunharrow they passed, and at length came upon a gentle slope. Éowyn gathered her skirts in one hand and quickly climbed it, to a broad field that overlooked the lower-lying meadow beyond the gates. And there, at the far end of the field, stood a number of horses, unfenced, unhobbled, without even a stable-lad or dog set to guard them. Heads came up, and ears swiveled, pricking forward attentively as Legolas and Éowyn came into view, and Legolas saw nostrils flare among some of the stallions that hovered near the larger herd of mares. But one in particular caught his eye—a great, dark grey who trotted forward a few paces to watch them.

"Behold the _mearas_ , the pride of the Mark," Éowyn murmured, and then made them a graceful curtsey. Looking once more upon the watchful stallion, who had a wiser eye to him than any horse the prince had seen for long centuries, Legolas, after a moment, made him a bow, straightening only as Éowyn did.

"You allow them to run free?" Legolas asked.

"We do not allow it; say rather, they will not have it otherwise, and we respect their wishes," Éowyn corrected. "These are the descendents of Felaróf, Éorl's steed, and his herd. They understand us, and of all horses are swiftest. They would serve a messenger well, if they consented to bear him."

"How does one win such consent?"

"They will decide for themselves. Only wait," Éowyn replied, folding her arms across her chest, fingers pressing hard, as if against cold.

"If my lady would rather not remain—" Legolas began, but she shook her head.

"It is no trouble. The _mearas_ treat more readily with those of the King's Household, and you need all such haste as can be made," Éowyn replied. A brief pause, and then, more quietly: "And I find of late I desire the company of but few."

Who those other few might be, she did not say, and Legolas did not press her. Had she wished to be pressed, after all, she might have waited until Aragorn arrived to make such half-confessions, Legolas thought, though with less bitterness than he might have ere the night before. He might not yet be willing to give up Gimli or foreswear vengeance, but it was good to think that when next he and the Dúnadan met—if they met again—there would be less wariness between them.

But Éowyn was not Aragorn, and neither was he, and so after a moment, Legolas said simply, "Then stay, by all means." And from the corner of his eye, he caught her blushing as she nodded her thanks.

And so for a time, they stood quietly together, the bright sun gilding the air, though the day remained chill. Idly, Legolas watched the grass sway in the breeze that came kiting down off the mountain slopes. A forlorn dance, it seemed to him, especially with the wind so fickle...

"Legolas," Éowyn whispered suddenly, and the Elf glanced up to see that the stallion had advanced a few paces. He tossed his head and backed a step, shying under their eyes, but after a moment, he flipped his ears and, apparently having come to a decision, began trotting towards them.

When he was but a few yards distant, he stopped again, and Éowyn curtseyed once more, before gesturing to Legolas. "Shadowfax, here is Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, come to ask a boon from Théoden King, of the House of Éorl," she said, and the great head turned towards the Elf, who bowed in his turn.

"Prince of horses," Legolas murmured, then hesitated, glancing at Éowyn. She made a minute gesture— _Continue_ , she seemed to say, and so he did. "I have an errand to the Steward of Gondor, on behalf of Théoden King. War comes, and that city must be made ready to hold until the Rohirrim arrive. If one of yours would consent to bear me swiftly thither, I would be most grateful."

Shadowfax snorted, but after a moment, approached and gently nudged Legolas, who carefully cupped a hand beneath the horse's nose, murmuring softly in Sindarin as he reached with his other hand to scratch between the stallion's eyes. Beside him, Éowyn shook her head, amazed. "He has let none handle him, not since he consented to bear Gandalf hence," she said, and Legolas closed his eyes.

"Perhaps he discerns, as from far off, the air of wizards—the friendship that Mithrandir bore us, who walked with him into Moria," he replied, opening his eyes as he glanced aside to look at her. She said nothing, and Legolas eventually turned his attention back to the stallion, whose eyelids were drooping beneath the Elf's ministrations. "What say you, King of the Winds? Is there one among you that would bear me hence?" he murmured. As if in reply, the great head lifted, and then drooped again, this time over Legolas' shoulder, as if possessively.

"It seems that Elves are indeed sorcerers," Éowyn said at length, as she reached up and stroked Shadowfax's withers.

"Perhaps in some small way yet," Legolas replied, ducking beneath the horse's neck so that he stood before her. And as they stood there, he gazing gravely down at her, and she not meeting his eyes, he felt once more the sting of grief and its mortal weariness, as in his mind's eye memory overwhelmed the present—

_Rain. Smoke. The broken city below._

__Gimli! __

_And beside him in the Darkness, a grieving girl who had sat silently by, saying nothing. For hours, saying nothing..._

— _For there was nothing to say, for either of us._ It was a bitter truth, and he found himself wondering whether there were any to do for her what Aragorn and even Éomer did for him. On impulse, he caught her chin in his hand, gently tilting her head up. Blue eyes flickered as they met his own, then flinched and shifted, even as most Men's would beneath an Elf's stare. Gone was the daring of those earlier days—were they really so recently passed? A sad thing, one to make him wish he were the sorcerer that the tales of this land made his kind, for then he might remove one grief at least from this world.

 _As it is, I must do what I can, I suppose,_ he thought, and then leaned down and kissed her brow. Brief and warm, that touch, and as he withdrew, he murmured his blessing in his own tongue, a lilt of words from gladder times that seemed to him to fit her song.

"Farewell, Éowyn, to such peace as can be found." So saying, he leapt lightly upon Shadowfax's back, and left her standing there, still and white as winter in his wake. Long it was ere she stirred, and then only to turn west once more. Not until one of Lord Dúnhere's men came anxiously seeking her with the news—that it seemed the Elf had departed, and with Shadowfax, and was the lady well?—not until then did she shake off her stillness.

"Yes, he was in haste to depart; yes, Shadowfax has gone with him; yes, I am well," she replied, and then paused, frowning a bit, but not with worry. Rather, it was almost puzzlement, ere she said again, "I am... well..."

"My lady?" the servant asked worriedly.

"Never mind. Tell your lord I shall come shortly," she instructed, and watched as he hastened away, not without a few backwards glances. But she paid him no heed, her gaze fixed westward once more, until she sensed that he had gone indeed, and that she was once more alone. Then, breathing deeply of that solitude, she wiped at her eyes, bowed then to the _mearas_ , and departed to find Dúnhere.

***

"What do you mean, he's gone to Gondor?" Pippin demanded, shocked enough that he paused in his kneading.

"Just that. He's gone—he came with some message from Lady Galadriel for Gondor, took a horse, and is gone now," Merry repeated, frowning prodigiously.

"But... Galadriel? How?"

"Quietly, Pippin!" Merry admonished, for some of the other cooks were looking their way now. Pippin blushed, made a slight bow to the room at large, and contritely pushed the dough a bit further up the board into a nice spot of flour. In the meantime, Merry continued:

"I don't know how. He said to ask Aragorn when he turns up, supposedly tonight," Merry said, pacing while his cousin looked on from his perch on a kitchen stool. "He gave me the slip, Pippin! Worse, he did it in broad daylight, right in front of me!"

At that, Pippin drew his hands from the dough, and heedless of the sticky mess, put his hands on his hips and retorted, "Well, he is an Elf! We likely used all our luck on Gandalf, you know—lucky we were _he_ didn't slip past us with Frodo. But what's all this about Gondor and Strider arriving tonight?"

"As for Gondor and Strider, I don't know anything about that, either. Legolas said little more than that everyone was well, and that Strider would come tonight." Merry paused, glanced up at his cousin, and then scowled. "Aren't you supposed to be kneading that?" he asked.

"So glad you noticed. And I would be, but there's a Brandybuck making quite the scene, keeping folk from an honest day's work," Pippin replied, and pretended offense when Merry rolled his eyes.

"There's rich! But I'm worried, Pippin. Something has happened, that's plain enough. Something enough to make Galadriel send a message!"

"You don't think... Legolas would have said if it had been about Frodo. Wouldn't he?" Pippin asked, his voice sinking with his heart as a sudden cold grip him by the very innards. On any other day, it would've been gratifying to see his cousin pale at his words, and to realize that he had seen something before Merry had, but the sight brought him no joy at present.

After a bit, Merry shook himself. "No, I don't think it's— _that_. If it is, Legolas must not know himself what message he's carrying. If he did..." Merry paused, then shook his head furiously. "Frodo's our _cousin_ —it wouldn't be right not to tell us." This seemed to reassure him, and Pippin found himself breathing a bit easier, for it did make sense. "At any rate, we can't worry about that now—we'll drag the news out of Strider if we have to tackle him by the campfire! We've got to make sure, though, that we're riding with him and the others to Gondor, Pippin."

"What about Lady Éowyn?" Pippin asked. "Wouldn't she help us? Didn't she tell us it was honorable to go to war if we went for our friends?"

"She said if we rode to honor our friends, it was reason enough," Merry corrected. "I suppose we'll find out soon if she meant it. I have to talk with her, for I'm done early today with the count, thanks to Greta. I'll ask her when we're done if she'll help us." He sighed, hefting the ledger in his arms as he gazed pensively at nothing. Finally, he nodded, as if he had come to some conclusion. "Yes, I'll be off, and as soon as I've got all the news and any help she may give us, I'll come right back and tell you."

Merry turned abruptly then, and without even a proper farewell, marched off at a determined pace, leaving Pippin to gaze after him, brow knit with worried frustration. _Not even a day made, and our conspiracy's in danger of falling through!_ There was something humiliating in that. At least it had taken them a few months to find trouble in their last one! But then he sighed and turned back to his dough. Plunging his hands once more into the sticky substance, he tried to compose himself in patience, as his mother had always said, to await Merry's return with what news there was to be had.

But patience had never been something that came easily to Pippin, and particularly not in time of worry, which this certainly was. _For what if Éowyn won't help us?_ he wondered, and could not leave the question be. _What if Merry can't convince her?_ He did not think the King of Rohan would hear their plea to ride in his muster if his niece would not. And surely Éomer, who might remember them as Gimli's companions from that awful day beneath the Huorns, but who would have little other reason to think of them, even, would have no reason to help them.

Which left, he thought unhappily, Aragorn. "This is not a battle for infantry, unless very skilled," Strider had told them, and then left them in Dunharrow. _I don't suppose he'll change his mind about that now that there are even more horses,_ Pippin thought unhappily. But if Éowyn refused them, then truly, there was no one else to ask.

 _There's something wrong about all this,_ he thought, with a ferocious scowl. _Two hobbits, begging to go to war?_ The absurdity of it struck him forcibly of a sudden, and the sheltered Shire-lad in him laughed. _I shouldn't even be thinking of this! Hobbits aren't made for these matters. Me especially!_ And yet, he remembered floating down Anduin, and questioning Boromir about Minas Tirith.

 _"What would we do, Merry and I, if we came there? As hobbits, you understand,"_ he had asked.

And in his head, he heard Boromir's biting reply: _"What indeed? Minas Tirith is an armed camp, Peregrin Took, and if you came there, you would fight when the enemy at last unleashed war."_

 _But it's true, though,_ Pippin thought, arguing with himself. _Boromir was right, even if he found it strange or silly—which it is! But we_ would _fight, Merry and I. We've got to—it isn't right, all the others having to fight for us, when we're willing. The Enemy won't mind that we're not so tall as some, will he?_ No doubt, the Enemy would not, and Pippin shivered a bit, taken by a strange and sudden certainty:

_There's something dreadfully unfair about all this fighting for us._

He only hoped that when Strider arrived, he would have the words for it. _And if not, what then, Peregrin Took?_ demanded his sheltered self once more, as thoughts took a rather vicious turn. _He doesn't have to listen to you, you know. Not even for his own good. And he already thinks he knows yours. Why should he hear you?_

Pippin pounded the dough with more force than was strictly necessary, then reached for the flour jar again. And he breathed deeply, wrinkling his nose against the urge to sneeze in the mealy air. _None of that!_ he berated himself. He had the afternoon. He _would_ think of something. _You'll see_ , he told that other voice. _And so will he. He'll have to._

Despite that, somewhat to his shame, he could not help but hope that Éowyn would make all his efforts unnecessary.

***

Merry left his cousin to his cook's duties, and went in search of Éowyn. After a few inquiries, he learned that she had gone to the storehouses with Lady Derwyn, Dúnhere's wife. However, once arrived there, he was informed that the lady had but lately retired to her chambers to make tallies and records for the King.

 _Maybe we've still a little luck left after all,_ Merry thought, as he made for the keep. It would be far simpler to speak privately there, after all.

Dúnhere had settled Éowyn in a small suite of rooms just above the great hall, and Merry found the door ajar slightly upon his arrival, sign of the lady's presence within and that she was working and might be interrupted for matters of business. Merry knocked, and received a distracted invitation to enter.

Éowyn sat at a small table, where she had laid out parchment and ink and was busily scratching away with the pen. No other books had she, nor any list—just as many an old gaffer or gammer in the Shire got along without ever reading more than the sign on the inn's door, so Éowyn kept matters straight in her head, as did most folk in Rohan it seemed, even the very high. It seemed even late nights on towers did not hinder her recollection.

"Merry," she said, as she glanced up, and her eyes fell upon the ledger he held. "So swift today?" she asked, and he smiled.

"Well, that was mostly Greta's doing," he replied.

"Greta?"

"Yes. Captain Éothain lent him to me. He said I would serve you better if I had him along to help translate," Merry explained. "And he was right. Here you are." Éowyn took the ledger in hand, and flipped through its pages, swiftly finding the end of yesterday's tallies.

"Another three hundred," she murmured after a minute.

"More or less," Merry confirmed.

"That is good news. Uncle should be pleased so many have come," she replied.

"Will he leave tomorrow, my lady?" Merry asked.

"I should think not. He will only just have arrived," Éowyn responded, and Merry blinked, surprised.

"But Legolas said Aragorn should come by nightfall," he said.

"They ride in separate companies," Éowyn replied, and to Merry's eyes, she seemed troubled. "Lord Aragorn shall arrive first, but the king's host shall travel more slowly, and arrive tomorrow afternoon."

"Oh. But... why?" Merry finally asked, after digesting this latest news. "Legolas said he was a messenger. Why would Aragorn leave King Théoden?"

"What did Legolas tell you, Merry?" Éowyn asked, frowning slightly.

"Only that Lady Galadriel had a message for the Steward of Gondor, and that he was the messenger." Éowyn nodded slowly at that, and he saw the tic, the clench of muscle as she bit down on some unhappy pronouncement, it seemed. Which did little to encourage Merry, who asked, "My lady? Éowyn, what is it? What's happening?"

"Some witchery, I fear," she said at length, and shook her fair head.

"Witchery?"

"So I call it, for I do not understand how such counsels come about and take root in hearts that should be more wary. The Lady of Dwimordene sent messages to the Lord of Rivendell, and he sent out riders—Lord Aragorn's kinsmen, 'tis said. And these riders have brought not only the words of the lady, but also of the lord, and none of them seem to me good. For by their words, they have set Lord Aragorn to ride the Paths of the Dead!"

"The Paths of the Dead?" Merry repeated in a small voice.

"An ancient road that begins here and goes through the mountains to some end in Gondor, or so it seems. The spirits of the makers haunt it, and none who live have ever passed it in all the years since the Mark began," she replied.

"And Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel are sending Aragorn there?" Merry asked, thinking furiously.

"Yes."

Black spots swam in his vision, and it seemed to Merry that his heart had plummeted right down to his toes. Visions of a shadowy shape in the fogs assaulted him, and memory of the cold heaviness of his limbs as the barrow had closed over him... _Get a hold of yourself, Meriadoc!_ he berated himself, putting his knuckles in his eyes. _Think! What are the dead? Are they worse than the way to the Fire? Didn't Elrond and Gandalf and Galadriel send Frodo that way, and did you argue with them? There must be a reason and a little hope!_ Which helped—truly, it did, and Merry took a deep breath, straightening as he lowered his hands.

"So Aragorn will go on the Paths of the Dead. He surely won't go by himself?"

"His kin will ride with him, for they are sworn to him," Éowyn replied.

"That is good, then," he said, with no little relief, and in the face of Éowyn's disbelief, added, "It may seem witchery to you, my lady, but bad as it sounds, I have to believe Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel wouldn't send him on a hopeless journey. They must have their reasons, and they must be good at that." So he said, and made himself believe it with those words. Éowyn's look was still skeptical, but there was, he supposed, little he could do about that. _After all, if I hadn't heard it myself, if I hadn't seen Rivendell or Lórien, I suppose I'd think little differently from her,_ he reasoned. And so instead he reminded himself of his own mission, and said, "They will meet us in Gondor, then, I guess. And speaking of Gondor, I'd been hoping to have a word with you, my lady."

"About Gondor?"

"About going to Gondor. We had hoped—that is, Pippin and I," he said quickly, "we had hoped that you could help us. You fought with the king—we've heard all about it since Edoras—and we were hoping, since you'll be riding with him, and have his ear, that you could put a word in for us. For I don't think he'll want us to ride with the Muster."

Éowyn blinked twice, and then she said slowly, "I see. But Merry, you must know that in a field of horsemen—"

"I do, Aragorn's already told us. That's why he left us here. But isn't it reason enough to go to war, whatever the risk, to honor our friends by fighting with them? Did you not say it yourself that day, Éowyn?" Merry asked quietly.

"I did say it," she replied, after a brief hesitation, and her eyes grew intent— _More intent_ , Merry corrected himself. Finally, she said, "And my heart believes it still. Very well, I will do what I can for you and Pippin. I would bear you myself, but—" She paused, and then shook her head once more, this time as if in dismissal of some thought. "I shall see to it," she said instead, and reached out a hand. Merry took it, and she squeezed firmly, as she finished, "You will come to Gondor, if that is your will. You have my word."

"Thank you, Éowyn," Merry replied, and bowed deeply. Éowyn released his hand, but only to set both of hers upon his shoulders, and as he straightened once more, she smiled faintly at him.

"Although there is no need, if you would thank me, then do me this favor when you ride...."

***

The afternoon waned swiftly. Evening drew on, tables were set, and supper laid to the slow songs of the Mark. Night had fallen and was getting on towards being late when at last, a company of riders came to Dunharrow: thirty-two men in star-brooched cloaks, grey as the land beneath the moon. And they found their hosts prepared for them, for Éowyn had arranged for tents and blankets and water to be made ready. And since it was late, places were found in the hall, even, for the Grey Company to sup in some greater semblance of civility than a campfire might offer.

"Prince Legolas has told us of your errand," Éowyn said to Aragorn, as he arrived there last of all, unless it were his companion, who excused himself quickly after polite thanks to his hostess. "I would lodge you all within the walls in better comfort, if I could, but I thought you should go forth with at least the memory of our halls and not only of our fields."

"'Twas kindly done, my lady," Aragorn replied. It was also, though neither remarked upon it, evidently not what was in her eyes, and Pippin and Merry, who stood nearby, turned worried looks upon each other.

"You're certain she told you Elrond and Galadriel advised this journey?" Pippin asked in an undertone, watching as the two took a seat at the high table, nearest the side where the Rangers were clustered, a patch of darkness amid the remaining Rohirrim, who sat or stood listening to the songs still, singing along at times.

"Quite certain," Merry replied.

"Then why does she look like that?"

"Just because Elrond and Galadriel advised it does not mean it is safe, Pippin," Merry retorted, and Pippin sighed, though he hardly needed the reminder.

"You're not reassuring, cousin!"

"Neither is any of this," Merry shot back, ignoring, it seemed, the request implicit in that complaint. But then he laid his hands on Pippin's shoulders and gave him a bracing little shake, as he said, "But never mind for a moment. Come, let's join them before they get suspicious—it's not as if we haven't been watching the road all day since we heard the news. Just remember—we're promised a ride into Gondor. We'll find him there, Pippin. We'll find both of them there."

 _If Strider makes it to Gondor at all,_ Pippin thought, but did not say it. The news that Merry had brought that afternoon of Éowyn's promise ought to have greatly relieved him, and it had—at least until his cousin had told him the rest, about the Paths of the Dead, and the splitting of Théoden's host as Aragorn set forth to ride that ill-named route.

"But how does this help us?" Pippin had exclaimed, when Merry had finished at last. "There's nothing to say we'll meet again in Gondor, after all!"

"I know, Pippin, I know," Merry had replied, and passed him the salt. "But it's the best we can do, and you know it. There's no way Strider will take us with him; at least this way, we can be waiting and watching Legolas. And we'll know when Strider arrives, if he does."

Which did not help _Pippin_ in pursuit of their original plan to keep an eye on their taller companions, but he supposed he should be charitable. Merry, after all, had already lost his chance in a way, thanks to Legolas going off as he had, and a promise from Éowyn to find a place for them among the Riders would at least put him in place to hunt Legolas down once the fighting had stopped. Which it would, of course, for Pippin refused to think of the other possibility.

But still, the fact remained that this arrangement did not put him anywhere near Strider. _Looks like I'll need those words anyway,_ he thought, as he and Merry sat near their friends, listening as first Éowyn spoke of Dunharrow and their efforts to order matters and men there, and then, as servants began collecting dishes, Aragorn, at her prodding and the encouragement of the hobbits, recounted something of the battle for Helm's Deep and the coming of the Grey Company.

"Are they all your kinsmen, Strider?" Pippin asked at one point, seeking to divert himself a little, and at least got some chuckles from the grim-cloaked warriors near enough to hear it.

"No, not all," Aragorn replied. "Or at least, not as we count such things, although a hobbit would no doubt find some degree of kinship between any two Men in the Angle. As we keep count, Halbarad is closest in blood, and him only do I call kinsman."

"What are you then?" he asked, turning to the Ranger indicated, who replied, without hesitation:

"Third cousins through a distaff line, Master Took."

"Oh. Why you're nearly as close as Merry and I then, and not nearly so far as Frodo is from us," Pippin replied, and then paused a moment, struck by the other's turn of phrase. "Unless you count distaff lines differently, that is."

At which, Halbarad held up his hands, as if to hold the matter safely at arm's length, and smiling slightly, said, "I have patrolled the borders of the Shire and the Bree-land many long years—long enough to know that if we begin such talk, I shan't see the end ere dawn! Alas, we have a long road before us tomorrow." This last, it seemed, was aimed past Pippin at Aragorn, who spoke a word in Sindarin, and tilted his cup slightly towards the other, as if in acknowledgment. Then turning to Éowyn, he said:

"It is true that we must ride early, so I shall bid you a good night, and many thanks, my lady."

Éowyn nodded, rising as the company began to file out, though both Halbarad and Aragorn waited until all had left before they bowed to Éowyn and took their leave of her and also of the hobbits. "Perhaps another time, Master Took, we may speak further," Halbarad added, as he gave Pippin a nod. And also his best chance, Pippin realized. Thus:

"Or you could tell me quickly as you go," Pippin said quickly, sliding off of his chair. "I promise I won't ask any questions that would need more time to answer than the walk to your tent."

"If that is not a promise made to be broken, I know not what is!" Aragorn replied, but only a moment later, he beckoned: "Come, then, and walk with us."

"Thank you, I shall. Go ahead, I'll be a moment," Pippin replied, aware that over his head, the two Men were exchanging amused looks, but also that Merry was giving him a hard eye. "Merry," he muttered, as the two Men quit the hall, "whatever is it? I'm just going to walk a ways with them."

"You've got that gleam in your eyes, Pippin," Merry retorted. And at Pippin's effort to seem unwitting, elaborated, "The one that says you're up to something."

"I just want to ask a few questions. I've no wish to rob them of a night's rest, Merry, truly!"

Merry shook his head and sighed. But then he lifted his chin sharply, pointing after the pair, and said, "Better you hurry then if you want to catch up, or you'll be foresworn as Strider thought. And be quiet coming in, for I'm also wanting a night's rest!"

"I'll be to bed sooner than you can fall asleep, cousin. Good night, my lady!" So saying, Pippin dashed after Aragorn and Halbarad who, it seemed, were doing him a favor and walking slowly. At his arrival, Halbarad obligingly moved aside a pace, allowing Pippin to slip between the two.

"I am warned I shall end my days answering you, if I but respond once," Halbarad said by way of greeting. Pippin gave Aragorn an injured look at that, but was prevented from responding as Halbarad continued: "So be it. It is a better end than many, after all. So you wish to know how we count distaff lines?"

And so as they walked, Halbarad explained—succinct answers that usually led Pippin to another question, and thence to another succinct answer, with an occasional further comment from Aragorn, so that it was a rather more satisfying inquiry than time might otherwise have permitted. But at length, they arrived at the Rangers' encampment, and at a tent set a little further from the others. There they paused, and Aragorn asked:

"Neither foresworn nor unsatisfied, I hope?"

"No, thank you," Pippin replied, but then hesitated. And here again, Aragorn glanced sidelong at Halbarad, ere he lifted the tent flap, and said, simply:

"Come in, Pippin."

"I don't mean to keep you—" Pippin began, but his friend shook his head knowingly.

"Plainly, it was no simple question of relations that brought you hither. And you would not keep us, but that you persist in standing out in the cold." Which response admitted of no other reply than to dart within the tent. The flap fluttered closed a moment later, and then Halbarad was lighting a pair of lamps that hung from two tentpoles. When he had done, he took one lantern down from its hook.

"I want another look at the horses, ere I sleep," Halbarad said. "And I shall make a round among the men, I think. Good night, Master Took." So saying, he disappeared out into the night once more. Pippin bit his lip as he turned a guilty look on Aragorn.

"I didn't mean for him to have to leave," he said, apologetically. Aragorn shook his head, as he folded down to sit tailor-style before the hobbit, who, despite an invitation to do likewise, remained on his feet.

"Halbarad has been my lieutenant for nigh on forty-five years, Pippin—he makes it his business to know when to retreat. More than that, he is my friend, and does as a friend would. Nevertheless," Aragorn said after a momentary pause, "let us not keep him any longer than necessary. What is it you wished to speak of?"

And Pippin, who had spent much of his afternoon imagining what he might say in this very situation, found himself suddenly at a loss. Not that he had managed to store up a great many words for the occasion, or even terribly eloquent ones, but he had thought he might at least be able to respond promptly. _But now that I am here, it is as if Strider has only to speak and I lose my tongue!_ he thought, frustrated.

 _Calmly, Pippin,_ he reminded himself, and drew a deep breath. _It's a simple enough matter, after all, nothing like explaining Rings and the like._ "Well, it's like this," he finally said, which was an awkward start, and he hurried past it. "I've been thinking, you see, about the war, and about, well, about what Legolas said, before you left. About hobbit-shaped instruments. And it's not that I want to be a warrior, or that I'm very good at fighting, or even that I'm very brave like some, but I _did_ say I would go with Frodo. And I meant it. All the way to Mordor, if it came to that."

He paused a moment, gazing at Aragorn with rather flushed cheeks, to judge by the heat of his face. But Aragorn said nothing, only signed for him to continue, and so he did. "But it didn't come to that. And I... it... I don't want to keep watching you and Legolas and even Éomer and Théoden and everyone else ride off to war, and stand behind waiting for you to come back. It's awful!" He shook his head violently. "I don't want to do that again, Strider. I may not be very much good in a battle, but what good am I sitting in a tower somewhere?"

A protracted silence fell, and Pippin, unable to endure the look Strider was giving him, lowered his eyes, biting his lip. But at last, he heard the other sigh softly, and then Aragorn spoke in a low voice: "I had thought we might speak on this matter again, and for all that it grieves me, I am glad in one way not to have been disappointed. For you are braver than you believe, Pippin—and Merry as well, for I do not imagine he thinks differently than you on this matter, unless very much is amiss in the world."

"Isn't there, though?" Pippin dared to ask, and surprised himself and Aragorn as well, he thought, with the acuity of that retort.

"Which is why I would have you remain here," the other said, recovering himself quickly. "It is not a question of your courage, but this battle that awaits in Gondor is not a battle for you to fight."

"What about all the others, then?" Pippin demanded. "All the other lads who go to war in this muster with no more than I've got, save their size? Is it one for them?"

"Size is no small thing," Aragorn said, pointedly. "As little a chance as they have, it is more than you would have."

"Is it more than Frodo has?" Which was cruel, and he had no sooner said it than he regretted it. _Gandalf was right, I am a fool!_ he thought miserably, for he realized to his horror that there was nothing to prevent Strider from saying "Yes"—that, indeed, all his argument needed that "yes"—but he most certainly did not wish to hear that. Alas, there was no unsaying such a question, and so he bit his tongue—hard—and awaited an answer.

Aragorn was silent quite a long moment before he replied at last and tautly, "Frodo's case is not one that I should judge—not in itself, nor beside yours. And as for yours, Pippin, you say yourself you have no desire in you to be a warrior. Do not then take up that mantle until it is thrust upon you, for there is other work to be done—"

"At home, yes, but I am not home, I am here!" Pippin protested, frustration bursting forth at last. "I can barely understand anyone here! Even Merry needs a translator. They don't have much in the way of records because almost no one writes anything, and although at least I've plowed a field before, there's not a plow in all Dunharrow to fit me. Not that it's even the season for that sort of thing anyway, with the ground so hard still.

"Pippin—"

But it was as if a flood had been unstoppered within him, and relentless as summer rain in a dry channel, the words came spilling forth with astonishing vehemence, heedless of all resistance: "There's nothing for me to do in Rohan, and I can't go home: even if I knew the way, Strider, what chance would I have? You said as much yourself when we first met you in Bree: between a month of lying in ditches by ourselves and being a Ranger, we'd die first. Ponies have better chances than a hobbit alone in the Wild!

"And it isn't fair," he continued, as the tremble in his voice spread to his knees; "I didn't ask you or anyone to stand in front of me. I don't _want_ you or anyone to die for me, can't you see that? It's not right. Maybe I'm ungrateful. Maybe it's foolish to even think so, for I do believe that some folk need protecting, but I don't know—I don't think I'm one of them, even if it's not likely I'll come through it."

If he had thought the silence before was heavy, he was mistaken. Pippin thought his knees would give out under the sheer weight of it, but he feared that if he sat down, all his speech would be undone. And even as he struggled against that shaky silence, he marveled at himself. _Where did I find all of that? Where did it even come from?_ He did not know, and it seemed a strange thing to him, that words he had but recently spoken could seem now so utterly foreign.

A veritable eternity seemed to pass ere Aragorn asked quietly, "What will you do if I refuse you?"

"Merry says Éowyn will help us ride with the Muster, so I'll go to Gondor whatever you will," Pippin replied. "I'll tie myself in a Rider's saddlepack if I must!"

"Then why should I take you in my company?"

"I don't know," Pippin admitted after a moment, and then shrugged helplessly. "Because I would rather ride with you? Or because if you took me with you, you could at least have an eye on me, if that would ease your heart."

At this, Aragorn sighed, bowing his head. But it was not long ere he looked up once more, and there was a rather peculiar gleam in his eyes as he said, "I should have spoken softer in Bree, _mithril_ or no, I see. Go then and fetch your gear and return here for the night, for I warn you, Master Took—" this with a wagging of a finger, as that gleam grew the brighter, humor mixed with an unexpected tenderness that took Pippin aback "—this time it shall be a drink and a bite standing on the morrow, and no more, for we leave ere dawn."

A moment longer, hobbit and Man stared at each other, before Pippin felt a smile spread over his face, and he bowed then—a short, awkward gesture, for it felt strange to do it before Strider. And yet, he thought, as he made his way swiftly out, it was the easiest "Thank you" he had ever uttered.

 

Aragorn, for his part, closed his eyes once Pippin left, counting heartbeats. He had barely reached ten when the tent flap opened and as he glanced up, Halbarad appeared, having obviously been watching for Pippin's departure. His cousin returned his lamp to the tentpole and then came and dropped bonelessly to the ground to sit before him.

"And now we are thirty-three," Aragorn told him, without preamble.

"Is that wise?" Halbarad asked, and received a shrug.

"Likely it is quite unwise, but it is also necessary," he replied, heavily. And then he snorted, feeling the barest of smiles tug at his lips. "Gandalf was fond of saying that hobbits are extraordinary creatures. I am perhaps overlate to grasp the truth of his words."

Halbarad only grunted at this, there being little he could say on that matter. And so he said instead, "The horses are seen to, and all are abed. As we should be, if we wish to rise ere dawn tomorrow."

"Pippin will be joining us," Aragorn warned, and got a nod.

"Well, there are plenty of blankets, thanks to the lady's hospitality," Halbarad replied, even as he reached and caught hold of both their bedrolls. Tossing one to Aragorn, he then set about unrolling his own. Aragorn followed suit more slowly, thinking, until at length, he heard Halbarad ask in a low, rather worried voice, "Aragorn? Are you certain of this decision?"

Aragorn blinked, then gave Halbarad a quick glance, meant to reassure, ere he said, "I am," and began smoothing his blankets. This time, it was a hand on his shoulder that interrupted him.

"Then what is it that troubles you still?" Halbarad asked, cocking his head slightly.

At that, Aragorn sat back on his heels, and he turned to look towards the tent's entry, as in his mind's eye, he envisioned Pippin gathering up his doubtless scattered belongings as he explained to Merry whither and with whom he would travel. _And what shall Merry say? Or shall we number thirty-four in the end?_ he wondered, and wondered whether he it was foolish to imagine it might be otherwise. But at length, feeling Halbarad growing uneasy beside him, he said slowly:

"He must come with us—it would be the greater blow to refuse him, and he has the right of the matter. I suffer nothing on that account." And then he grimaced, as he turned at last to Halbarad to finish, "Nevertheless, however right the choice, I fear that we may both rue it greatly ere the end."

 

* * *

  
  
"Perhaps he discerns, as from far off, the air of wizards"—cf. "The Window on the West", TTT, 369.  
  
 _[W]e'll drag the news out of Strider if we have to tackle him by the campfire!_ —"The Palantír," TTT  
  
"Between weeks of lying in ditches and being a Ranger, we'd die."—cf. "Strider", FOTR, 168  
  
"[T]his time it shall be a drink and a bite standing"—cf. "A Knife in the Dark", FOTR, 174  
  
"I should have spoken softer in Bree, mithril or no, I see."—cf. "The Bridge of Khazad-dûm", FOTR, 319  
  
"Hobbits are extraordinary creatures"—cf. "The Shadow of the Past", FOTR, 61.


	34. Setting the Board

It was the chill hour before dawn, yet upon the fields of Dunharrow, men moved already. In the firelight, horses neighed and stamped in the mist, blowing steam and rattling bit and bridle. Their riders, cloaked and hooded in grey, checked tack, settled weapons, or stood here and there in pairs, mugs of tea in one hand and waybread in the other. Every so often, a pair of dark heads would bend toward each other, and some whispered conversation would pass between them. Merry, watching them, bit his lip and turned a worried look upon Pippin, who also was watching them with uncharacteristic silence, as if attempting to emulate his newfound companions.  
  
At least, Merry thought, he was eating like a hobbit. Merry had filched a few extra rolls from the kitchen—the fruits of yestereve's final baking—and brought them to his cousin. Pippin had devoured them gratefully, and then the waybread, and was now only nursing the tea, and only because, Merry thought, warmth was hard to come by this morning. Merry certainly felt chilled.  
  
He had felt so since Pippin had come bursting in last night, beaming, to exclaim, "Merry, I did it! Help me pack!" Which had needed some explanation, and Merry had had to draw it out one frustrating step at a time as Pippin had dashed about their room, quickly retrieving scattered belongings and clothes, folding them up and stuffing them into his pack. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he had listened, and by the time he had heard the whole of it, he thought his heart had fallen straight into his toes. Pippin had noticed his expression, and as he had shouldered his pack, had come, puzzled, to stand before Merry, who had sat huddled in the sheets.  
  
"Merry," he had said, reaching out to squeeze his hands, "what is it? If Strider will have me, why, he'll have you, too, you know—just come with me. He'll relent—he'll have to or he'll have to go back on his word and leave me here, too. And you know he's not the sort for that!"  
  
"I can't," Merry had replied miserably.  
  
"What do you mean, you can't?" Pippin had asked. "Just tell Éowyn we got Strider to agree to take us. She'll be glad, I'm sure—it is one less thing for her to worry over."  
  
"I can't ride with you, Pippin, because I'm already spoken for," Merry had said, and sighed. "I promised Éowyn I would ride in Éomer's company, to keep a watch on him. She's that worried about him, you see."  
  
His cousin's face had fallen at that. For all their scheming, they had not truly thought to be separated on this venture. Not even Saruman's orcs had come between them after all. But oaths and other friendships could, it seemed, and so Merry stood now with Pippin in the thin fog, waiting for a sign, and he fretted, shifting from foot to foot. Beside him, Pippin clutched at his mug, blowing on cold fingers, and he gave Merry a look out of the corners of his eyes.  
  
"Are you angry with me?" Pippin asked at last. Merry blinked, and then again, staring down at his toes.  
  
"A little, I suppose," he finally said. "I knew you were up to something last night. I even guessed what it was, though I didn't say anything. I thought I wouldn't _need_ to say anything."  
  
"Because you thought Strider would reason me out of it?"  
  
Merry nodded, then gave his cousin a rueful smile. "I suppose if I'm angry with anyone, it's him," he said, and kicked at the wet grass. "Here I was counting on him to be horribly sensible about taking you anywhere near Gondor, but ten minutes alone with you and sense goes right out of his head, it seems!" At that, Pippin grinned, and Merry, too, felt his smile broaden at the sight. He could not help it, even as he had to swallow the lump in his throat to ask: "You'll take care, Pippin?"  
  
"As much as I can," Pippin replied stoutly.  
  
"And a little more than that, I hope," said a new voice, and both hobbits looked up as a tall, grey form appeared suddenly, leading a horse. Merry needed a moment to put a name to the face revealed when the man pushed his hood back, but by then, Pippin was already asking:  
  
"Are we to ride now, Halbarad?"  
  
"As soon as we know all are ready," the Ranger replied, then gave Pippin a rather stern look. "Let's have a look at that blade, lad."  
  
"My sword?" Pippin frowned over the unexpected request. But Halbarad merely raised a brow and held out his hand. And so Pippin drew the sword and offered it up for the other's inspection. Halbarad took it, hefted it once, ran a finger along an edge.  
  
"When was the last time you sharpened this?" he asked.  
  
"Er, sharpened?" Pippin glanced at Merry, who shifted uncomfortably. It was, after all, his blade.  
  
"You can't go without a sword, Pippin," he had told him last night, and pressed the Barrow-blade into his cousin's hands.  
  
"But what about you? You'll be riding to Gondor, too—" Pippin had protested, but Merry had shaken his head.  
  
"I'll ask Éowyn about getting a new one. I've got time enough, and surely someone here has an extra dagger. But you've got to leave on the morrow. Take it."  
  
And so Pippin had, and Merry had felt the better for it. But being no warrior himself, and having no use for swords in the midst of all the confusion and worry of the past few days, he had not thought to check the edge. He supposed he had thought it well enough—after all, hadn't Strider said he had used Pippin's blade on an orc back in Edoras? Then again, he supposed that at need, one used whatever was at hand, and from what he had heard and seen of the battle of Edoras, dire need had been the one thing the besieged had not lacked.  
  
"I don't know," Merry said at last. "I think I must have done it last before Parth Galen."  
  
Halbarad grunted. "Aragorn thought it might be so when he saw Pippin with it this morning. Here." He returned the weapon—not to Pippin, but to Merry, who received it with some chagrin. "'Tis a good blade, and with some care, will serve you more than well. But we have no time for such labor who ride this morn. So for you, lad..." Halbarad trailed off and twitched his cloak aside slightly to reveal a dagger, the hilt of which was just visible past his elbow. With the ease of long practice, he undid the strap that kept it in place at his back, all without looking, and handed it then to Pippin. Pippin hesitated a moment before accepting it, then very gingerly slid it out of its sheath. Merry, who came to look over his shoulder, grunted.  
  
Though there was little tracery on the hilt, and none upon the blade, still, even Merry could see that the make was not unlike that of his Barrow-blade, though he thought it seemed newer, perhaps a little lighter. _Or no, not lighter, but something is missing,_ Merry thought, but wondered what, and wondered too what made him think so.  
  
"We have not the art we once had," Halbarad said then, seeming to guess Merry's thoughts, and the hobbits looked up at him. "But it has saved me before."  
  
"But will you not then miss it?" Pippin asked, concern furrowing his brow. "I should just ask a Rider—"  
  
"Nay, for the hour is struck," Halbarad replied, and pointed. Merry and Pippin turned to see Rangers and their horses moving now, hurrying to form ranks. "And I shall not miss it, for you ride with me. Come!"  
  
Merry felt his back stiffen and his stomach knot at that, and he drew a deep breath, even as Pippin sheathed the dagger, stuck it under one arm, and hurriedly swallowed the rest of his tea. Then he pressed the mug into Merry's hands. For a moment, they stood thus, and Merry felt his cousin's fingers warm upon his chill ones. _This is farewell, I guess,_ he thought, and saw the fear in Pippin's eyes, too. Which wouldn't do at all, and so Merry cleared his throat, essayed a smile, and took the cup. He embraced his cousin quickly, and murmured into his ear, "Take care of yourself. And take care of Strider."  
  
"I'll see you in Gondor," Pippin whispered back.  
  
"In Gondor." Merry repeated, then drew back. But as Halbarad lifted Pippin into the saddle and made ready to mount behind him, Merry quickly caught at the Man's cloak.  
  
"Master Brandybuck?" the Man replied, a trace of impatience in his voice now.  
  
"You take care, too," Merry said in a low, urgent voice, and stared up at the Ranger, willing him to understand. And after a moment, Halbarad's face seemed to soften slightly, and he nodded.  
  
"As best I can, I will." Just that, and no more, ere he swung up into the saddle. With a word to his mount, they were off, trotting swiftly to the head of the column, where Aragorn now sat his horse. Halbarad drew up beside him, and it seemed the two conferred a moment. Then came a horn call, and of a sudden, the company was moving. Merry dashed after them, past a row of deserted tents, past the Rohirric guards who watched and shivered and made signs of warding in their wake.  
  
"Farewell, Pippin!" he cried, and waved, knowing Pippin could neither see nor hear him now. Not that it mattered. When at last he came to a halt, and stood panting, hands on his knees while he craned his neck to gaze after the Rangers now far down the fields, he wiped at his eyes and did not bother to pretend it was just the cold that made them tear. And when he had finally blinked them dry, he found that the mist had closed in over the great sward, and the Grey Company was no more to be seen.  
  
'Twas there that Éowyn found him, staring into the fog. She must have been speaking with Aragorn ere the departure of the Dúnedain, and she, too, had a cup in hand—or rather, a goblet, and empty as Pippin's was. Laying a hand on his shoulder, she said softly, "Come, Merry, we've work to do."  
  
And so he followed her to a tent, where he was greeted once more by Captain Éothain, his hair loose, standing unarmored in his shirtsleeves and breeches at so early an hour, seeming to Merry's eye rather dour. At his side slouched a rather sleepy, worried-seeming Greta, whose expression lightened considerably when he saw Merry. In spite of himself, the hobbit could not help but wonder what the young man had said or done that he imagined this early summons to his captain's tent to be a matter of discipline. Of course, for that matter, Merry was unsure what he was doing in the captain's tent at this hour, either—"work" was vague as the morning's fog after all.  
  
"My lady," Éothain said respectfully, then glanced down at Merry. "Master Holbytla, it seems you are well-claimed."  
  
"Sir?" Merry asked.  
  
"I have told Éothain that you are to ride in his company, since he is my brother's captain and closest to him," Éowyn explained.  
  
"Then you have my thanks, sir," Merry said, and bowed, which courtesy seemed to make little impression upon the captain.  
  
"Were I in your stead, lad, I would not be so free yet with my thanks," he replied, darkly. Éowyn laid a hand on Merry's shoulder at that, and Éothain's eyes flicked to it, then up to his lady's face, ere he sighed and gestured to Greta. "Nevertheless, 'tis not me whose opinion you need fear, but Éomer's. So, since you seem well-suited to each other, I am giving you into Greta's care once more. And when I say 'care', I mean it: you will ride with him, eat with him, sleep with him—in short, you are his shadow henceforth, or better, his baggage. 'Twill be his task to keep you out of the Marshal's sight, Master Holbytla, and I expect you will not seek to make this difficult, for him or for me. Understood?"  
  
In the face of the captain's narrow-eyed scrutiny, there was but one response to make: "Yes, sir!" Merry replied quickly, and bowed again.  
  
"Good. Then go see to your gear. Greta can help you with it," the captain ordered, and after a glance at Éowyn, who nodded encouragingly, and added, "I have had some things delivered to your room, Merry, that you will need", Merry scampered from the tent, Greta on his heels.  
  
"Now that," the Rider declared once they were out of earshot, "was worth getting up for!"  
  
"Were you wakened?" Merry asked, contritely, craning his neck up at the young man. "I am sorry! I don't mean to be trouble for you."  
  
"Nay, 'tis no trouble—fortunately," Greta replied, and made a sign for good luck. "But the captain is not one to bow to many—not even to the Third Marshal, or at least, not without arguing. I've not seen him so put in his place for quite some time! But come," he said, dismissing such matters with a wave of his hand, "we should see to readying you for the ride. Have you any needs in particular you know of?"  
  
It was thus that Merry made his acquaintance with the smithy of Dunharrow, where, following Halbarad's instructions, he had his sword sharpened properly. Greta then went with him to the small chamber he and Pippin had shared to discover that Éowyn had sent up a small, round shield with a white horse upon it, a stiff leather jerkin that likely was meant to be a short jacket for a Man but which came down to Merry's shins, and an array of tough leather helms. "Where did she find these?" Merry wondered, as he tried one on.  
  
"Likely from the stables," Greta replied. "They are for children, when first they learn to ride. The shield though—" and he hefted it, testing its make it seemed "—that I do not know."  
  
Once Merry had decided which of the leather riding caps fit him best, the two of them departed to see to Greta's gear. They spent an hour oiling tack, sharpening Greta's weapons—and Merry, for some reason, found himself taken aback by the deadly array that this rather cheerful young man carried—and the Rider had showed him the sand barrels and how to clean chain mail. By the time they had got their rations filled by the sharp-eyed ladies of the keep, noon was nigh upon them.  
  
And then there was nothing for it but to wait. For the first time since he had arrived among the Rohirrim, the hours seemed to drag by, as colorless and slow as the morning's fog, and they weighed on his spirit. Greta introduced him to his friends, though he was wise enough not to say that Merry would be riding with them. For his part, Merry found it was not difficult to pretend his gloom was due to disappointment that he would remain behind in Dunharrow. For missing a friend gone to war was easily misunderstood as missing a friend who had gone to war when he himself could not, and he found the Riders sympathetic to his imagined plight. A little _too_ sympathetic, even, for they seemed alarmingly eager to try themselves in battle, and Merry had sometimes to bite his tongue.  
  
But for the most part, he found himself between worry and boredom, too disheartened by Pippin's absence to pay much heed to the idle chatter of soldiers, and yet too weary with the waiting—all alone, as he felt it, despite the company of Greta and his friends—for even discouragement to prick sharp. He thought of all the long days walking with the Fellowship, and wondered why he had never noticed before just how long the miles were, and how empty the world seemed.  
  
Not until late afternoon did aught break through the listlessness of his mood. The guards began crying out, and even Merry knew the words: _Théoden cyning!_ A cheer went up among the waiting Riders, who abandoned their chores or their conversations and gathered to watch as the long lines of weary men and horses passed through the camp under the king's banner. Merry, however, could see nothing, short as he was, and after a few frustrated attempts to work his way to the front of the crowd, he surrendered and tugged Greta's hand. Greta glanced down at him, then considered the broad, armored backs of his countrymen, and shook his head.  
  
"Nothing for it!" he shouted to Merry, and so saying, caught Merry up and swung him up onto his shoulders, like a father with a young son. Merry clutched wildly at the other's braids for balance, but Greta's hands on his knees were firm, and after a moment spent catching his breath, the hobbit gazed out over a sea of flaxen hair and bright helms, to the stream of Riders passing before him. Their tabards were stained, their faces dirty, and some bore the cracked remains of shields, but they held their heads high for all of that, clattering into Dunharrow under two banners: the royal emblem, white horse on green, and the other a white horn upon a red field.  
  
Helm's Deep, and the long-delayed Westfold levies, had arrived at last.  
  


***

But if Merry or anyone had expected that with the arrival of the final companies of Riders, they would leave immediately for Gondor, he was mistaken. For the companies of Helm's Deep and Westfold and the King's _éored_ had fought too many battles and ridden hard with scarcely a rest. Blown mounts and men too dull-eyed with exhaustion to hold a line would do no one good, and so word went round the camp: tomorrow would be a rest day, and the day after, they would set out for Gondor.

For his part, Éomer was ambivalent about the delay. On the one hand, he chafed to be away after the grim council in Helm's Deep; on the other, seeing how stiff and exhausted his uncle was (and the effort it took to hide it), he could not but agree that a day off the road was needed. Still, he was uneasy and for all that he, too, was weary, he slept but fitfully that night, waking often with a start and a gasp, convinced he was falling or else drowning, 'til at last he threw aside the blankets and sat up in bed. The floor was cold beneath his feet, despite the warmth of the fire in the hearth, and Éomer leaned his elbows on his knees and hung his head, gazing tiredly at his hands through hair still damp and now rather stiff from a hasty wash ere he had gone to his (thus far not terribly restful) rest.

After a time spent counting horses in hopes of numbing mind and senses into a stupor, he sighed and gave up. Rising, he pulled on his shirt and a woolen tunic over that, jammed his feet into his boots, and left his room, pulling his hair into a messy braid as he went. It was not, he discovered, nearly so late as he had thought—the third watch of the night had not yet begun, and as he passed by the stairs that led down to the great hall, he could hear men's voices singing still.

But he did not pause to listen; instead, he made for the outer court, seeking his sister. For although they had spoken earlier that day, when the company had first arrived at Dunharrow, it had been a brief conversation before Éowyn had chased both him and Théoden away.

"You must see to the men and then rest; I will see to Dunharrow," she had said, and would hear no objections.

Which had left him uncertain how matters stood with her after the tumultuous events of the past eight days. It had been awkward, even cold, between them since the argument after the battle of Edoras. Wormtongue's poison was not so easily purged from them, it seemed, as from the kingdom itself, and his death had not improved matters. Yet Éomer had thought that afternoon that _something_ had changed with her, though he could not find words for it. Supper had unfortunately placed him too far from her to try that perception, even had there not been too many listening ears, and weariness had sent him seeking his bed early. But it seemed that he was doomed to restlessness, and perhaps in part because he had not yet spoken with her, and so he went in search of her now, hoping for a word.

But he did not find Éowyn along the walls, nor upon the towers; she was not in the stables nor behind the kitchens. Frustrated and puzzled (and in fact, a little fearful), he finally made his way back to the great hall, up the stairs, and took the short corridor down to stand before his sister's door. There were no guards before her chamber, and he hesitated a moment ere he knocked gently, then stood back, fighting the urge to fidget like a guilty boy.

And he waited. And waited. And knocked again and frowned as fear grew stronger. _Where is she?_ he wondered, and was about to leave to interrogate the guards at the end of the hall when the door opened, and there stood Éowyn, a shawl about her shoulders, blinking the sleep from her eyes still. "Éomer?" she murmured, her voice soft and confused. "What are you—never mind. Come in, please," she invited, stepping aside for him.

"I did not mean to wake you," Éomer said by way of apology as he obeyed that summons, and his sister closed the door behind him. The chamber beyond was dark, save for a candle she had set on a table near the door, and he quickly took it and moved about the room, lighting lamps while Éowyn got the bar into its brackets. When he had done, he turned and scrutinized her in the new candlelight. There were shadows beneath her eyes, her hair was unbound and rumpled, and beneath the shawl she wore only her nightshift. Her mouth seemed thin and tight as she gazed back at him, and it was with some concern that he said, "You were never one to retire so early."

"We are all weary, Éomer," Éowyn replied, clutching her shawl closer as she settled carefully into an overstuffed armchair.

"Is there no one with you?" he asked, frowning at the emptiness of her chambers. "You have not even anyone watching your door."

"I dismissed the maid for the evening, but there are guards at the end of the hall."

His frown deepened. "Is that wise?"

"Éomer," his sister sighed, and he protested quickly:

"I ask only after your safety, Éowyn."

"Then you need not fret over me, brother," she replied rather primly, impatience coloring her tone. "What have I left to fear for myself, after all?"

Blunt truth had ever been a weapon Éowyn could turn to her advantage, but in the later days of the court, with Gríma at the heart of the kingdom, it had grown rare and Éomer had found himself always two steps behind where his sister's well-being was concerned. Perhaps that was why it struck him so hard to hear it now, delivered so coldly and with a logic that could not but wound anew. Éomer flinched, and as he looked away, folded his arms over his chest, hugging himself against the shame he had carried since that morning in the dungeon.

In the silence, his sister sighed again, but then in a rustle of skirts, she stood suddenly before him, and rough hands cupped his face as she forced him to look at her. To his surprise, there was dismay in her eyes—not the simple contrition that usually mended their periodic quarrels, but a rather wrenching horror stared back at him, ere Éowyn laid her head on his shoulder as Éomer rather awkwardly gathered her into his arms, having no other choice as she leaned heavily against him. Her arms slipped about his neck, and her breath tickled as she murmured, "Forgive me. I should not speak so to you."

"Éowyn, I—" Words failed. Éomer swallowed hard, moved one hand up from her back to stroke her hair, tried again. "You were always the braver one of us," he husked. "A good thing, for I could never protect you as a brother should his sister." A pause, then fiercely: "I should have had you out of that hall years ago!"

"I would not have gone," Éowyn replied. "You know this."

Which, too, was truth, and left him feeling rather adrift and bewildered by what seemed the inevitability of it all and just—raw. He closed his eyes as he pressed his face against her hair, breathed in the scent of grass and her skin, and a faint whiff of lilac—their mother's favorite scent, and he wondered that he had never noticed her wearing it before. _Then again, there is so much I have overlooked. So much_ we _have overlooked,_ " he amended, remembering his uncle's words to him.

Éowyn was shivering now. Her shawl lay where it had fallen when she had risen, pooled on the seat of the chair. So he walked her towards it, bent and retrieved it, then drew it about her shoulders. But despite that and her brother's arms about her, the shivers did not cease, but rather increased, and with a kind of wonderment, he felt hot tears dampen his shirt and the hollow of his throat.

"Éowyn?" he asked, amazed and rather at a loss at this quite unexpected turn. Yet at least he was free of his cage this time, and buoyed by that knowledge, he forced down panicky incomprehension and instead drew her down to sit nestled against him on the chair. "Dear one," he murmured, rocking her gently; "'Tis over. You are free of him now, free of all of it."

"But I am not," she protested, shaking her head vehemently, and drew away from him then to gaze up at him from red-rimmed eyes. "I thought I was, but it was no more true than Wormtongue's lies."

"He is _dead_ , Éowyn—"

"Aye, and more fool me for thinking that to kill him would make an end of it," Éowyn interrupted bitterly, and bowed her head. "It but gave him reach beyond the grave—made me a murderer, a usurper of our uncle's judgment, and you and he liars for me!"

Éomer stared at her a moment, ere he reached to take one of her hands in both of his. The hand of a shieldmaiden did not sit soft in his, and he gently ran his fingertips over the sword-calluses, seeking some response. Finally: "What will you do?" he asked quietly.

"I spoke with Uncle earlier," she replied. "When the Muster rides, he will need a regent again. I have said I would stand for him in Dunharrow until he returned." She lifted her eyes once more. "A sword once sullied cannot regain its shine by spilling yet more blood. But perhaps keeping the law will at least wash it clean once more." She sighed, and laid her free hand atop his, squeezing firmly as she finished in a low voice, "And perhaps then I shall be free of him. 'T'would be good—I am weary of life in his shadow."

With that, she fell silent, but it was not the cold silence of previous days. Rather it was pensive, and in the flickering light, Éomer could see for the first time the hints of lines about her mouth, the slight squint to her eyes and the furrow to her brow, the marks that care had worn too early into her face and would but deepen with time. Of a sudden, he was seized by a vision of her—still in her white, but with her hair gone dull with grey and her face riddled with the seams of age and duty; the hand he held now was swollen and roughened with rheum and weather as she reached out to some unknown other. Her body was bent and her looks age-ravaged, and she was... radiant. There was no other word for her, even as the image faded and he found himself faced with but the beginnings of the long journey towards that day. A strange feeling took him, then, and moved, he slipped from her grasp to take her face in his hands as she had done to him not long before.

" _Blessed be the bold that bend to serve, great in glory they that grow old in duty._ " So he spoke, and kissed her brow tenderly.

But Éowyn shook her head. "Make of me no Eldride, brother, for I would not have you be Eorl only to praise me above my worth!"

"I do not praise you overmuch, nor am I Eorl," he replied, as he drew her unresisting into his embrace once more.

"Good," she murmured as she resettled her head upon his shoulder. And she slipped a hand down to grasp his once more. And he, responding to the implicit request in that touch, sank back with her into the comfortable depths of the chair, and drew her shawl across both of them. Éowyn lay limp and warm in his arms, and as he held her, tucked beneath his chin, that odd feeling filled the hollow of his chest that grief and shame and rage had made. She had ever been fair to his eyes, and dearest to his heart, and now after the wreckage of so many lives, their own not least, seemed precious beyond telling...

"I love you," he whispered, and closed his eyes then. The silence of the room grew heavy, seeming to seep into his flesh, quieting his heart, stilling thought as oblivion crept in. Still: "I love you," he repeated.

And in the night at last, there came a reply: "Come home to me first, brother, and then you will speak true."

But Éomer made no answer—it seemed he slept already.

Nonetheless, the day after next, when the Riders stood ready to depart with the dawn, and Éowyn brought the stirrup-cup to uncle and brother, Éomer drained his portion and as he handed the cup back to her, said:

"Until our return. For I would not be a liar a second time." So saying, he kissed her cheek, then leapt into the saddle. "Take care of yourself, Éowyn!" And then, as the horns sang out, he was gone as the vanguard wheeled about for the road. Amid the crowd by the gates, Éowyn stood watching until at last the dust hanging in the air was all that was left to tell of the Muster of Rohan.

Then mustering her own spirits, she turned and in silence made her way through the ranks of the people who parted before her, their White Lady of the House of Eorl.

* * *

  
  
_Make of me no Eldride, brother, for I would not have you be Eorl only to praise me above my worth!_ —Eldride is the completely uncanonical wife of Eorl. He obviously had one, so I just gave her a name and a fragment of a verse. The name itself means "wise counselor."


	35. Beneath the Shadows

_There was Sound in the Void: around the Silent Places that marked the paths and places that once the Music had been, there wove a faint, whispering Noise, a murmur of fragmented Measures. High beyond thought and deep beyond the depths of Time, the movements of the Song, for Time also is ordered—and the Song also. Essential, eternal, the Song is relentless: it would make and unmake all that is, would Sing the small lives of creatures out... save that it cannot. Not wholly.  
  
And so the light went out in Gondor, save where fires burned on the hilltops, summoning aid none hoped to see. And in the twilight, there came a rider on a silver steed..._  
  
  
  
"The Isle is fallen."  
  
Ingold of Minas Tirith drummed his fingers on the stone of the ramparts, and wished he were alone so that he could do something about the pain creeping up the back of his neck, threatening a headache. But the commander of the North Gate company could not afford the luxury of admitting that the mounting fear among the men affected him, so he folded his hands and counted to five before he replied:  
  
"We do not know that, Melendir. And I will thank you to keep your voice down if you must say it."  
  
His second in command sighed, but he did lower his voice as he moved to join Ingold. "The messenger the Captain sent should have come down the road by now if Cair Andros held still, sir. They must have fallen."  
  
Which was the plain, poor truth of it, but Ingold was not about to say it where his men might hear it. Not yet. "We will deal with Cair Andros when the Lord Faramir sends word—when he comes through the East Gate, then we will speak of this. Until then, we hold our posts and dig the pikes in," he replied.  
  
"Sir, if he comes through the East Gate—"  
  
"—then that shall be wonder enough, yes, I am aware of this, Melendir. But have a care for the lads; I have seen many a pallor-dulled face that is due not only to short rations," Ingold said, and Melendir snorted.  
  
"Oh I do, commander, never fear. That is why I am certain the grey in their cheeks owes much to the reek and the thrice-cursed ashes," the other said, deadpan. Ingold rolled his eyes slightly, but he smiled a little, and clapped the other on the shoulder, sending up white-dusty cloud.  
  
"No doubt you are right," he replied, then reached to adjust his scarf, which he, like all the others of the North Gate company, had tied over mouth and nose to try to keep out the worst sting of the acrid air. It was but the latest insult to add to the injury of an impending siege, the ash. _Valar, what I would not give for an hour of sunlight!_ Ingold thought longingly as he gazed up at the black-scorched sky. Two days now they had seen no sign of the sun, unless redly in the evenings, just ere night fell, nor much in the way of hope. The very day the clouds had arrived, the Captain had sent a messenger, and the news had spread all along the walls, and no doubt through every level of the City: _Prepare: the Enemy comes!_  
  
It might, Ingold reflected, have meant more had there been any further preparation for his men to make, but the guards on the wall had their shifts, and Ingold had always kept a strict regimen of training for his men, who did their duty in month-long rotations, living in the barracks hard by the Rammas Echor. Their sword-work and archery could hardly improve, and they had been manning the catapults since the battle for Osgiliath last summer. Otherwise, guard duty on the wall was tedious work, and if more eyes might shorten the watches, in the end, it was a matter of patience and discipline, not to let the mind wander too far on duty. What more preparation could they make? They had all said their farewells to loved ones a month ago, knowing full well the day when the outland companies should arrive. It was as if word of doomsday had arrived too late, all too late—obscenely so.  
  
For men _wanted_ more to do—Ingold could feel it. There was a frantic undercurrent to the company demeanor of late, as if men were desperately seeking some means to make that announcement weighty, some way of forcing routine to acknowledge the solemnity of the moment. The trouble was that it _was_ routine, and so they were forever running up against its unyielding nature, which demanded that they stand their watches as ever they had, that they eat at the appointed hour, sleep at the appointed time, practice archery and then sword-work, check the catapults, clean their gear, and do their laundry every Thursday. Where in all of that was there room for commemoration?  
  
Which was not to say that absolutely nothing had changed: the Steward had sent men to reinforce the companies at the East Gate, whither Faramir ought to retreat, assuming he won back across the river. But the North Gate had not got anything more than word of that—and the news that they would have to make do on their own, that Cair Andros must be trusted to guard the northern flank, for the Steward could spare no more men from the City walls proper for the North Gate.  
  
"In other words, the escapes of Cair Andros shall be our only reinforcements," Melendir had muttered, and Ingold could hardly contest that conclusion, unless it were to wonder whether they would get any help from that watery quarter at all. For Lord Faramir had also sent word to his father, who had passed it to the North Gate company, that they should look for the mounted messenger he had sent up to Cair Andros the same day he had sent his news to the City—the messenger by whose absence the men now calculated their common doom.  
  
And as if that were not sobering enough, last night Mordor had apparently coughed up an ash cloud and sent it winging across the befouled air to hover now over Minas Tirith. Ingold had been awakened by the watch officer during the dead watch to come and see the latest assault on their dignity, and by dawn (such as it was), the ground had been covered with a thin blanket of ashes. Men stifled under the hot, poisoned rain that the brown clouds dropped, and had coughed and wheezed until Ingold had officially damned the uniform regulations and ordered his men to find something to keep the wretched stuff out of their faces.  
  
That done, however, routine had reclaimed them, and they were back to waiting on a messenger whom no one believed would come. Ingold had long since privately consigned him to an early grave and wished him a mercifully speedy end, though he would never admit it, not even to Melendir.  
  
Hence he was surprised when a sudden sharp call broke out, "Rider on the road!"  
  
Melendir and he both spun around to see one of the sentries leaning forward into a crenel, staring intently into the murk. Then he pointed excitedly into the distance. "There! To northwest, up the road to Rohan!"  
  
"Rohan?" Ingold murmured, as he hurried to the man's side, Melendir not a step behind.  
  
"Where, Dirgant?" his second in command asked. "I see no one."  
  
"He is very far, sir," Dirgant replied, and indeed, he was squinting. "'Twas a glimmer of light caught my eye once, and then again—otherwise, it is hard to see. But—look, see there!" He caught Ingold's arm and drew him nearer, pointing again. "Do you see it, commander?"  
  
"I believe so. You have a hawk's eyes, lad," Ingold replied, as he strained his eyes after that flash of silver. "Can you see his colors? Is he indeed Rohan's?"  
  
"A hawk's eyes are not an eagle's, sir," the man replied wryly. "We shall have to wait."  
  
Which they did, Ingold with a mounting impatience he strove to suppress. The occasional flash of silver became a constant light, and then a bit larger, a bit more defined.  
  
"He must be from Rohan, at that speed, but he will kill his horse getting here!" Melendir said after awhile.  
  
"Indeed," Ingold said, headache forgotten as he laid a hand on the other's shoulder. "And I can think of but one thing that might spur a man so. You have command here, I shall be at the Gates."  
  
"Aye, sir," Melendir replied crisply, then raised his voice to call past Ingold: "Look lively, lads! If he is one of ours, let's get him through the gate—archers, stand ready to cover him if need be! Stand by at the catapults!"  
  
You could tell an officer, the joke went in Gondor's army, by his lungs, and scarf or no scarf to muffle words, Melendir was an officer. Thus by the time Ingold reached the ground, the men there had heard Melendir and those off duty were rushing to arm themselves, while those who had the watch had already gathered by the gates.  
  
"Pikes stand ready, and someone fetch a healer's satchel—we may need it," he ordered, and men hurried to obey. That was all, and then it was time to wait again, if more breathlessly than of late. _Is it time at last?_ Ingold wondered. _Are they so close, our enemies?_ And if they were, where was the Captain...?  
  
He was not sure how long they stood waiting, but sooner than he would have thought, the call came down: "Rider coming in!" The gates lurched as the watchers on the wall pulled the levers, and the ancient gates swung open with a creak and groan of metal—just enough for a rider to dart through in a flash of silver and green, pulling up short before the wide circle of pikemen barring his way.  
  
"Dismount, sir! Dismount and speak your business!" Ingold ordered, standing forth from the others. The rider, who rode bitless and bareback, turned his mount—most definitely one of Rohan's herds, and no common steed, either, if Ingold were any judge—and bright green eyes framed by flaxen hair fixed on Ingold, who blinked and found his own gaze sliding off the other's face. Something in that look put a shiver down his back, like steel pressed up against his spine, or a lyre out of tune.  
  
So it was that he missed the dismount—of a sudden, the rider simply was upon the ground, and walking his horse towards him. He paused about a horselength away, and made a slight bow, one hand over his breast. "Are you the captain of this company?" he asked.  
  
"I am. Ingold is my name. And you, sir? Who are you and what is your business in Minas Tirith?" Ingold paused, eyes narrowing as he looked over the other. Green he wore, and brown too, but no white horse—indeed, his clothing seemed to belong to no company, though it was well made, if travel-stained. And although Ingold knew the Rohirrim had mounted archers among them, the bow and the quiver at the rider's hip did not seem of their making. "Who is your master?"  
  
"My master is no mortal Man, captain," the rider replied. "Legolas I am called, and I come bearing a message for the Steward of Gondor from the Lady Galadriel of the elven realm of Lothlórien, and also from King Théoden, who bid me take a horse and word of his coming when he had heard what I had to say. A fortunate meeting, else perhaps I might not have arrived in time. I should take to the walls were I you, captain—the enemy is coming."  
  
"This we knew, for word has come from the Captain that the Dark Lord advances—"  
  
"I know nothing of your Captain, but I tell you I have seen them on my journey to you—the Enemy has crossed Anduin. You will know better than I what it means if your Captain has already sent word, but for myself, I must take my message to the Steward. May I pass now?" the messenger asked.  
  
Ingold, who had been reshuffling lines and armies in his head, blinked, but then nodded sharply. "Yes, yes you must go at once, as soon as—"  
  
"Sir!" One of the company sergeants interjected, and Ingold turned to see the man staring southeast along the Rammas, his face set in a stony expression. Ingold glanced left, following his gaze... and then he saw it.  
  
"Signal fires," he murmured, as all along the wall, torches were raised, and began to move in a flickering code. "Lord Faramir has crossed the river—they are coming!" Whirling, he demanded, "Who are our runners this shift? Helavrin—mount up and take the Lady's messenger with you to the Steward. Go! And you sir," he said, turning back to the waiting rider, "follow him, he will see you through the Seven Gates more swiftly than you could on your own."  
  
"Thank you," the Elf replied, and with that sprang lightly back onto his steed, who snorted violently, shaking his great head and sending off a shower of ashes. From the other side of the circle of pikemen, one of the younger lads was bringing a horse, and the chosen messenger gave the tack a cursory check, then mounted swiftly, nudging the gelding towards the Elf.  
  
"Let us go," he said, as the company parted, revealing the long road back to the City's main gate. The other spared no words, unless they were to his steed, and in the blink of an eye, he was away, Helavrin cursing as he struggled to catch up.  
  
Ingold looked after them for a long moment, then turned to his men, gazing round the ring at their anxious, solemn faces. "All right lads, it seems it has begun at last. To your posts and quickly—I want to give our next guests a proper greeting."  
  
There was no cheer for that, but the overwhelming chorus of "Aye, _sir_!" was sign enough for Ingold. Drawing a deep breath, he passed command of the ground to one of the company commanders and returned to the ramparts, where Melendir gave him an unwonted somber look and said, "All stands ready above, sir."  
  
"Good. Good," he repeated, glancing around to confirm that for himself. Then he looked southeast, whence the torchfire had spread, and finally, due south, where the tiny figures of two horsemen were swiftly retreating. _Good speed to you_ , he thought, and then turning back to the darkened northern horizon, thought to his enemies: _And to you also, that our wait may end at last!_  
  
  
  
The two messengers winging their way over the Pelennor fields at least had no need of such silent encouragement; the urgency of their news sufficed, even if Legolas, accustomed now to Shadowfax's tremendous pace, suffered from the sense that he was tethered to his companion's slower mount. Not that the young gelding did not make a valiant effort, but he could not hold even with the chief of the _mearas_ save that Shadowfax allowed it.  
  
Still, it was not long before the City Gates loomed before them, and as they drew near, his companion shouted out something that the winds tore from even Legolas' sharp ears. The guards at the gates, however, seemed to understand him well enough, and swiftly drew away, leaving them a clear path into the City— _Boromir's city,_ Legolas thought, glancing up and around at the high stone towers and walls, even as his companion slowed. Legolas followed suit, and together they clattered through streets filled with companies of white and black-clad soldiers, though there were clots of color here and there: archers in rusty brown, or else in green with a black mountain blazoned on their tabards, and a set of knights bearing a silver swan upon their immaculate blue tunics.  
  
"To pass from one circle of the City to the next needs a password," his companion was explaining, drawing Legolas' attention from the bustling men. "Ordinarily, we would leave our mounts at the gates of the Second Circle, but for one from the wall these days or with urgent news and the right passwords they will step aside, so stay close!" So saying, he urged his mount on more swiftly, and Shadowfax immediately quickened his pace.  
  
Up into the City they went, and the crowds fell away, so that soon, they were flying through streets well nigh deserted, barely slowing as they reached the gates—just enough for Helavrin to cry out, " _Aiwë alarca!_ " and for the guardsmen to move aside.  
  
Thus they came at last to the Seventh Circle, and the Court of the Fountain before the White Tower, and Legolas beheld a dead tree, stooped, it seemed, under a blanket of ashes. The guards there bore the image of its former splendor upon their black livery, and though to the attentive eye, they breathed as all Men do, Legolas was not deceived. _Everything here is dead,_ he realized, and suffered a sudden bout of panic, for the acrid air was heavy in his lungs, burned in his eyes and mouth, and upon this windless promontory, amid the lofty work of ancient stonewrights, he felt as if the world had constricted round his chest or landed squarely on his back. For just an instant, he saw again the coils of Darkness—writhing no longer, but simply _there_ , present in a dead weight that swelled like a bloated corpse to fill all the open, airy ways of this high city...  
  
"Sir?" Legolas blinked, and the streets were empty once more. Helavrin gazed at him uncomprehendingly, with just a touch of wariness in his concerned puzzlement. The Elf shivered, and wet his lips slightly just to see whether he could, before he replied:  
  
"Nothing. Lead the way."  
  
Helavrin nodded, though he gave him another long look ere he began to walk towards the Tower. Legolas trailed in his wake, breathing deeply despite the discomfort while he tried to compose himself. _I must not allow it in, the Darkness,_ he told himself. _I cannot endure another Rohan. Not again! Most especially not now!_ Nevertheless, despite the dangers, he let his Sight take in the City, that he might at least not be wholly overwhelmed and without warning when least he could afford it.  
  
The guards before the doors of the Citadel questioned them briefly, but only to learn their names ere they passed them into the marble halls beyond. Even here, the burning scent followed them, clinging to their clothes as they made their way down a long hallway, where the grave faces of kings long dead gazed sightlessly down in ranks upon visitors. But they led to an empty throne—the kings had no contemporary to be their eyes in truth, unless it were the one who sat upon the plain black chair at the foot of the dais.  
  
The Steward of Gondor was grave as any statue, proud, but without the shine of pride: that inner luster had faded long before. Thus Legolas looked now upon a grey man—grey of hair, grey of eyes, grey of spirit, his soul like a spider's web that refused the play of light and darkness alike, reducing all to an indistinct opacity. _This is Boromir's father,_ Legolas thought with no little shock, remembering how brightly the son had glittered despite the shadow on his soul. Into his mind came winging then the elven word made for Men when Men were yet new to the world—year-sick, _old_. And despite having seen aged Men before, he thought he understood now, at last, what the Sindar had meant when they had named Men beneath the light of the new Sun.  
  
Yet those grey eyes—a deep, dark grey, like charcoal—were not empty, as Théoden's had been, but keen; body and spirit might age, but the mind remained sharp as the Steward gazed at Helavrin. The guard stood forward then, bowed, and announced, "My lord, I am Helavrin of the North Gate guard, sent to warn that the signal fires have gone up upon the walls, and to bring to you one who claims to be messenger from the Lady Galadriel of Lothlórien and also from King Théoden of Rohan—the Elf, Legolas."  
  
"Let him approach," the Steward commanded, and Helavrin turned and beckoned to Legolas, who obeyed. "Closer." A long, pale finger crooked, and Legolas advanced another pace. "Closer." And then another, 'til he stood just out of arm's reach of the Steward. Boromir's father stared at him, dared even his eyes, and Legolas felt a shiver go through him, as if with that glance the Steward had stripped the flesh from his bones to see the soul within. Almost elvish, that look, and he could not but think of Aragorn.  
  
"So," Denethor said after a time, "the Eldar race deems it timely to speak on present matters, and even Théoden has put his trust in you. Speak then. What counsel from the Elves?"  
  
"My lord Steward, the lady sends warning to you that the Enemy moves and will see Minas Tirith first, ere ever your allies do, and it seems that warning has been too well borne out," Legolas replied, and drew forth his borrowed messenger's case and surrendered it to a black-liveried guard who hurried forward to receive it. He opened it, inspected the paper carefully, and then brought it to his lord, holding it open that the Steward might read it.  
  
If the forgery were recognized as such, Denethor gave no sign. He merely nodded and lifted his eyes to gaze once more at Legolas, folding his hands as he rested his elbows upon the arms of his chair. "It is said," said he, deliberately, "that the Lady of Lothlórien is one of the Wise—that she sits upon the White Council, which in these days, among Men, is remembered only among the loremasters and their archives. 'Tis said also that the master of Imladris is one of that body. Is this true?"  
  
"Yes, my lord," Legolas replied, watching the other closely now.  
  
"My son departed on an errand to Imladris many months ago. I wonder whether any news of him has passed from Imladris to the Lady Galadriel since then?"  
  
Which question left Legolas in a difficult position and with little time to think on it. _No wonder Aragorn was so cautious!_ he thought, as he began to answer, matching the Steward for slow deliberation to buy himself a few more moments to sort out his reply. "I cannot say what news passes between the Wise, my lord. I am only a messenger and do not seek to know the private counsels of the Lady and Master Elrond. I can say that news of your son, the lord Boromir, has passed through Lothlórien. We know that he set out for Gondor some three months ago, for Elrond sent word that we should assist him should he happen to pass by our land on his way home, but more than that I cannot say, for I do not know what else he might have told the Lady."  
  
Denethor was silent a moment, seeming to consider this fiction, crafted from the bare bones of truth. At length, he nodded. "I see. You have my thanks—it is good to have some news." Then, moving away from that matter smooth as glass, "You have been to Rohan with this," he said, and tilted his head slightly at the message that the guard held still. "I gather that King Théoden has accepted the warning, if you are here also on his behalf. Will he come to our aid?"  
  
"The king and his men should have set out yesterday, my lord," Legolas replied.  
  
"Five days at least," Denethor murmured, and shook his head, and his face darkened. "Well, if it be so, we must endure. And your own people? I suppose that it is too much to hope for unlooked for aid?"  
  
"I fear we have our own borders to look to, my lord steward," Legolas replied truthfully.  
  
"I see. And is there aught else you would tell me of?" The question was delivered evenly, but for all that Legolas felt the edge to it.  
  
"No, my lord, unless it be to offer my service, since it seems we are all caught now in the same net."  
  
"Indeed. Very well, then. We shall find a use for you—'tis said the eyes of the Elves see far," the Steward replied, gazing shrewdly at Legolas from over the tips of steepled fingers. "And we have a great need for look-outs of late. Berelden!" The hitherto nameless guard stood forward once more, listening as his lord delivered his orders without ever looking at him. "See to our guest's lodging and take him to the armory afterwards. Then send Lord Húrin to me, for we have still some little time to consider our defenses ere Faramir arrives. As for you, Legolas, we shall consider which of the archery companies might need you most. Until I send word to you, you are free to go where you would, so long as you do not pass beyond the gates of the City."  
  
"Yes, my lord," Legolas replied, bowing. "Thank you."  
  
"Come with me, sir," Berelden murmured, reaching to touch his elbow lightly, and Legolas obeyed.  
  
Behind him, he could hear the Steward ordering Helavrin to return to his post with orders for his commander. But despite that, as he left the hall, he could feel the Steward's eyes on him still, boring a hole in his back...  
  
"Is there something the matter, sir?" Berelden asked of a sudden, and Legolas glanced aside to find the guard staring at him, and he realized he was pressing his left shoulder with his right hand, shrugging slightly.  
  
"No, nothing," he replied quickly. "'Tis an old wound, and nearly healed. It but itches and is sore still at times."  
  
"I could bring you to the Houses of Healing, if you wished," the man offered. "And if it troubles you, then you should go now," he advised, "while the healers have still time for more minor pains and before you start wearing your armor like your clothes."  
  
"Yes, I suppose I should. Lead the way, then," Legolas sighed, mindful of his promise to Aragorn. _I take such care as I can, my friend, and I have not been foresworn—I said I would rest if fortune were kind. A pity for both of us that she is not,_ he thought, and wondered where Aragorn was at the moment, whether he had fallen prey to the tricks of shades or whether he held to his path.  
  
 _I suppose we shall all know soon enough. If fortune is kind..._  
  


***

Peregrin Took, for his part, had no thought for fortune's kindness or cruelty. He had no thought for it, for to a hobbit the tides of the world are the changes of season—time for plowing, time for sowing, harvest time, rainy seasons and the dormancy of winter, all played out upon good earth and friendly skies. Fortune was a minor trickster at best; she had no weight, was 'it', not 'she', and so as Pippin clung to the saddle he shivered not over fortune's malice but the events of the day and the feeling of frightful exposure.

For of all the Grey Company, he was the only one mounted now—all the Rangers walked alongside their horses, occasionally murmuring encouragement. There had been no other way forward with them; that had been clear when they had reached the Door, and even Roheryn had balked. After a moment's consideration and a dark look for that menacing threshold, Aragorn had called for all to dismount. Halbarad, however, had laid a hand on Pippin's shoulder and murmured, "Stay." Then he had swung down from the saddle, taken Teldith's reins in one hand, hooked the fingers of the other hand into the bridle near the bit, and coaxed his horse forward to stand abreast of Roheryn and Aragorn, who had been hunting about in his scrip for matches.

"This is an evil door," Halbarad had said quietly. "Death lies beyond it."

"It lies at the end of every road," Aragorn had replied, even as he had drawn an unlit torch from his saddlebags. "And if not for us then for others. We made our choice in Helm's Deep; to turn back is to fail."

"We may yet fail even if we go on—the horses will not bear this road and us at once. We will lose time," Halbarad had warned. "Perhaps too much."

"We shall see," had come the reply, and Aragorn struck a match, then held it to the torch, which flared swiftly to life. Then he had wrapped Roheryn's reins twice about his wrist and caught the bridle, just as his lieutenant had done. Turning, he had called back to the last man in the column: "One torch ahead, one behind." Then glancing back at Halbarad, had said, "Follow me. And Pippin?"

"Yes?" Pippin had asked, startled to be suddenly addressed. Aragorn raised a brow at him.

"Sit tight." At that, Pippin had only nodded, and watched as Aragorn led a white-eyed Roheryn into the darkness beyond the Door. Halbarad had followed almost immediately, and Pippin had closed his eyes as they had stepped over that threshold... into a world colder than he had imagined existed. Pippin had gasped, and shivered violently, even letting go of the saddlepeak to chafe his arms, though to no avail. For the cold did not lie on the skin only, it got inside a body. _Right down into my gut,_ Pippin had thought, quaking. _Caradhras was surely warmer!_ Which was perhaps not wrong, for it was no mere wintry chill that lay upon the Paths, but cold was the feeling of fear—indeed, its very shape and substance, and Pippin had felt his heart freeze with it. Swallowing hard, he had finally screwed open one eye and seen Aragorn's torch ahead of him, and beneath it, the shadowy silhouette of Ranger and beast.

"Quickly now," Aragorn's voice had come back, echoing a bit in the long, carven corridor. One by one, the Rangers passed through the Door and onto the Paths of the Dead.

Since then, they had been moving steadily, the Rangers settling into a loping, slow run, the horses trotting alongside their masters, and Pippin clinging for dear life to the saddlepeak. To either side, he could just make out the smooth hewn stone of the walls, pierced occasionally by shuttered doors leading to who knew what miserable end. Before all went Aragorn, a little apart from those in his wake. And behind...?

Pippin had only looked back once since passing the Door, seeking the torchlight that would mark the end of the column. And he had spotted it—a ruddy, flickering light that seemed dulled, as if it shone through a mist. But a horror had seized him then; it was as if the cold within had fingers, and had gripped his innards, like icicles piercing intestines, twisting in them, so that he had quickly spun back about, panting and trembling, nearly sick. Blackness threatened, and in his weakness, Pippin had been struck then with the fear that he might swoon and topple off of Teldith's back without anyone the wiser. Everyone walked with his head down, as if to assure himself that he still walked upon the earth or to spare himself the sight of the walls and the gloom ahead—who would notice if suddenly he were gone?

"Do not look back." The admonition had cut through the still air, piercing the darkness, and Pippin blinked. Halbarad had not looked at him, and his voice had been low and steady, but Pippin had heard the tightness to it. _He is also afraid,_ he had realized, and obscurely felt relieved. "The Dead follow. Do not look back." Weakly, Pippin had nodded.

He had kept his eyes fixed straight ahead ever since, on the light borne aloft in Aragorn's hand, or else he stared down at his own hands, or at the back of Halbarad's neck as the hours unfurled. That last was a strange view to him, unused to being taller than his companions. Accustomed to being overlooked because out of Men's sight, he found it was not a very comfortable position, particularly knowing that the Dead were watching. _They must see me above all others,_ he thought, hunching his shoulders reflexively, and tried not to think any further down that line of reasoning lest the terror of that one backwards glance take him again. Nevertheless: _Don't look, don't look, I'm nothing to look at, please don't look at me!_ he implored, over and over, and let those words fill his mind like a prayer, for whether the Dead could hear the silent wishes of the living or not, at least it was _something_ to think of, other than the cold dread.

On and on the Grey Company went, never slowing, and the echoes of their passage made Pippin wince from time to time. Noise was obscene in this place, and he could not but fear that the Dead were troubled by it, angered by it—that at any moment, they might sweep forward to reclaim the silence of their tombs. _Stop thinking of that!_ Pippin berated himself, and tried to remember Tuckborough's smials. The old warren of ways was comfortably lived in, and even the older, unused tunnels that generations of Took children had been losing themselves in, returning in triumph with tales of terror and secret findings, shone in memory with a distinctly friendly light by comparison to this place, and he held onto the remembrances of those carefree times with a will...

"Hold! Halbarad." Aragorn's voice sounded suddenly, and Pippin whimpered a little. Halbarad, though, paid him no mind, but hurried forward, while the rest of the company slowed to a halt.

A little ways ahead, Aragorn stood staring into the distance. Mustering his courage, Pippin raised his eyes and followed his gaze to where something gleamed just beyond the circle of light shed by the torch. "What is it?" he whispered.

"I do not know," Aragorn replied. Then: "Halbarad, take Roheryn a moment. Pippin, come with me."

"Me?" Pippin managed, amazed.

"I need someone to hold the torch and Halbarad cannot manage you and two horses if anything should cause them to spook," Aragorn replied. Faced with such logic, Pippin could hardly dismount fast enough. He grasped the arm that Aragorn raised to him, and Aragorn grunted a bit as Pippin slid off Teldith and into his embrace. Swiftly, then, he lowered the hobbit to the ground, then drew his sword and handed Pippin the torch. "Stay close," he ordered, and Pippin nodded, as firmly as he could, though his knees were none too steady as he followed the Ranger forward.

It was, as it turned out, gold that shone in the darkness, reflecting their own light: gold laid on the armor of some long forgotten warrior. Pippin swallowed hard against a certain queasiness as Aragorn slowly sank down to crouch beside the bones, which even in repose told a rather morbid tale.

"He was trying to get out," Pippin murmured, staring at the fingers lodged in the gap in the stone wall that outlined a locked door. The shattered sword by his side told the rest. Glancing over at Aragorn, who had made no move to touch aught, but simply stared in silence, he asked, "Who was he, do you know?"

"The lesser son of wiser fathers, who will now never lie in the green mounds before Edoras. Unhappy man, to be lured by a shadow and a hope for glory," Aragorn murmured. Raising his eyes, he glanced left over his shoulder, back along their path, as he continued, a little more strongly: "But the barren troves of the accursed hold nothing for us." Rising then, he held Andúril aloft and the torchlight gleamed along the blade as he cried to the emptiness, "Keep your treasures and your secrets, but lend us speed. Or else leave all such and gain yourselves once more—I summon you to the Stone of Erech!"

As if in response, a wind blew suddenly fierce, and the torch guttered, nearly failing, much to Pippin's terror. But then the blast of cold air died just as swiftly as it had come, to be replaced by a leaden stillness, broken only by the sound of Andúril being resheathed and the sounds of nervous horses being calmed by their masters. A cold sweat broke out on the back of Pippin's neck, but he had no time to wonder at it, for Aragorn was moving, and Pippin hurried after him, eyes resolutely fixed upon the ground. _I will not look up, I will not look up, I will not..._

It was almost a relief when Aragorn lifted him to Teldith's back, and took the torch once more, for at least then Pippin could not see the darkness behind the Company and the torchlight gave him something safe to look at. As he settled himself in the saddle, Halbarad handed off Roheryn to Aragorn again, and within a matter of moments, they were once more trotting along, though perhaps a little more swiftly than before. For behind them, there sounded a rustling, as of a thousand dead leaves in a wind, and Pippin crouched in the saddle, making himself as small as he could before that frightful sound. Which put him, coincidentally, at Halbarad's ear, and so keeping his eyes carefully forward, he hissed:

"What's the Stone of Erech that's got them in this state?"

"The beginning of this tale," Halbarad replied, and glanced briefly aside at him. "You will see."

Which was apparently all the answer he would get, and having better things to do—such as holding to his precarious perch and keeping terror at bay—he did not press the other. Pippin was uncertain how long they walked after that, whether it was hours or days even, for all his senses seemed frozen, his mind numbed by the incessant rustling and whispers of the Dead. But at length, he became aware that the echoes were giving way to the sound of water falling, that the light before him came not only from Aragorn's torch—a gate lay before them! As they passed through it, the walls shot up into cliffs, but the sky opened overhead to show a deep, ink-black sky, salted with stars. At the sight of them, Pippin felt his heart leap, as with relief of having escaped the terror of the tunnel. The cold that had clenched his stomach seemed to ease a bit, enough so that Pippin, ever curious despite fear, was able to dare a backwards glance. Behind them, at the head of the chasm, lay the towering shadow of the mountains, and a pale mist—a mist which, as he stared, eyes watering with the effort not to shut, took on the shapes of banners and spears, and the wavering forms of men...

"Mount up!" Aragorn called then, and Pippin blinked. No sooner had he shut out the sight than he was already turning away, before he could even consider another look. _As if I want another! Why did I do that?_ he wondered, as hastily he sat up straight, jerking his hands back when Halbarad reached for the saddlepeak. In a twinkling, the Man was settled behind Pippin, who quite without thinking, leaned back gratefully and exhaustedly into the warm, solid body at his back, glad to have someone between himself and the eyes of the Dead. An arm curled about his waist then, and Pippin glanced up in surprise to find the Ranger gazing down at him with a slight smile.

"Sleep if you can, Master Took," Halbarad told him. "I will see you do not fall off, and will wake you when the time comes."

"Thank you," Pippin sighed, and pulled his hood down over his eyes. He heard Aragorn speaking—telling them they would ride to reach Erech ere the night ended—but heeded him little. Exhausted from fear, but lulled by the sense that the worst was over, he drifted to sleep and dreamt of eagles crowned with stars soaring through the air as the wind rushed over him.

 

 

It was some time later that Pippin felt himself being shaken, heard his name being called softly. With a start, he opened his eyes to darkness. "Where are we?" he asked, sitting up straighter, and Halbarad replied:

"The Hill of Erech. Come." The Ranger dismounted, and Pippin felt hands clutch him, lift him from the saddle. Torches were being kindled once more, and their light showed up a strange thing: a globe, black and tall as any Man, half-buried in the ground at the crown of the hill.

"Is that—?" Pippin began, and Halbarad answered ere he could finish:

"The Stone of Erech. 'Twas here Isildur summoned the Men of the Mountains, calling them to fulfil their oath to stand by Gondor in time of war."

"What happened?" Pippin asked, as Halbarad paused, struggling to retrieve something from amongst his gear.

"They broke faith," Aragorn said, appearing suddenly beside them both. Pippin glanced up, and saw his friend staring at the stone intently, his eyes dark despite the gleam of firelight reflected in them. "When the summons came, they refused it. And so Isildur in his wrath cursed them to a deathless dwindling. Their king would die, and none would replace him; their kingdom would fade, and none would rise again from their land; and they would be ever restless until they were summoned once more. Then only might they depart this world, when they had fulfilled the oath they had sworn.

"All the long years since Isildur's death, the curse has stood, and passed to each of his heirs, who might call upon the Dead. At first, they would not, and later, they could not, and the curse has been as a canker upon too many souls," Aragorn murmured. He paused, and when next he spoke, his voice hardened: "'Tis time to end it."

With that, he strode forward, and Halbarad came swiftly after him, bearing what seemed a staff, furled in some dark cloth. Pippin stood watching, aware of the Rangers standing tense and eager beside him, and of the awful cold behind them—the Dead breathing down their backs, it seemed, if ghosts had breath. Halbarad gave Aragorn a horn, and he blew upon it.

From all around there came what seemed echoes, or else memories of them, carried upon a ghost wind that sprang up suddenly, chill and fierce. Pippin caught the edges of his cloak and pulled them close about himself. But worse even than the cold was the sound of it—the rustling became a whistling scream of despair and fury that cut straight to the bone of man and beast. Quaking, half-frozen with fear and heedless of the Rangers struggling to restrain terrified mounts, Pippin went to his knees and desperately pressed his hands over his ears to try to shut out the noise. But he kept his eyes on Aragorn, who did not move, only stood and let the winds blow. And blow they did, howling about the hilltop, whipping at his cloak and clothes and hair as they swirled about the Grey Company.

At last, though, Aragorn cried out to the night: "Oathbreakers, why have ye come?"

A roiling gust of wind seemed to tear up the slope, and Aragorn swayed, and his head went back as that airy column rose straight up about him... only to die as suddenly as it had arisen. And in the stillness that followed, as if from far off, a voice cried back: "To fulfil our oath and have peace."

"Ye shall have peace," Aragorn replied, then, in a tone that put fresh shivers down Pippin's back, "when Minas Tirith is delivered. When that is done, then I shall hold the oath fulfilled, and ye shall be released from bondage to depart this world. So say I, Elessar, Isildur's heir of Gondor!"

At that moment, Halbarad held aloft what Pippin had thought was a staff—it was a banner, but one dark, and Pippin could see no mark upon it in the night. A great sigh seemed to run round the hill, and afterwards, a deep silence settled. Halbarad lowered the banner, glanced at Aragorn, who laid a hand on his shoulder. _It is enough,_ that touch said, and he seemed to sigh himself ere they both descended from the great stone to rejoin the Grey Company, who drew close in about the pair.

"We will stay here tonight," Aragorn announced. "Take what rest you can, all of you. I think," he said, a little wryly, and ran a hand through wind-tousled hair, "that we need not fear to be approached by any. Be ready to depart at dawn."

The Rangers obeyed, though no one sought to erect any tents. Men broke ranks, forming a loose pair of circles upon the hill. Horses were quickly hobbled and tethered, the torches staked into the damp earth of the hill, forming a ring of light against the night, and bedrolls were spread. One of the Rangers, who had tended to Teldith and Roheryn, unstrapped their saddlebags and seeing Pippin standing there, brought them over, along with Pippin's pack, and set them all down before him.

"Thank you," Pippin said, and got a courteous nod ere the man departed, hefting his own pack over one shoulder. The hobbit began pulling his blankets out, but then paused and glanced back over his shoulder to where Aragorn and Halbarad yet stood, now a little apart from the rest of the company. They were talking quietly with each other, and Pippin's eyes narrowed as he marked the way Halbarad's far hand, out of sight of most others, rested lightly on Aragorn's arm, as if in unobtrusive support as they conversed. The Ranger lieutenant let his gaze drift over the camp, and his eyes fell upon Pippin, who froze a moment, then ducked his head, embarrassed suddenly, though he did not know why. But after a moment or two staring at the ground, he shook himself, and made himself useful then by unrolling their bedrolls and arranging their blankets for them before he began laying his own out nearby.

He was but halfway finished with his task when Halbarad nodded to Aragorn and looked over to where Pippin labored once more. Shaking his head, he approached, knelt down, and began gathering up his blankets. "My thanks, Pippin," he said in a low voice that did not seem upset, at least, "but I must make my bed elsewhere. Keep an ear open tonight." For what, he did not say, but the conspiratorial gleam in his eye left Pippin with no doubts as to his meaning. And despite the dread that lingered oppressively about the hilltop, he had to suppress the impulse to smile, grateful, then, and flattered, too, for that unexpected trust.

"Of course," he said, belatedly, for the other was already moving. He watched as Halbarad passed by Aragorn with a murmured "Rest well" ere he made his way over to the other side of their hasty camp.

Aragorn, however, spared but a slight nod, as he stood looking out over the Company. A long moment he watched them, before he at last turned and came to where Pippin was just pulling out an extra blanket from his pack. Pippin felt the other's hand brush his shoulder in wordless thanks as Aragorn wearily lowered himself to the ground, did off his sword-belt, rolled himself in his blankets, and then lay still, apparently asleep immediately. But something told Pippin it was not so, and after a moment, when he had finished with his own bedding, he crept over and said quietly to the other's back:

"Are you all right, Strider?"

A muffled snort answered him. Then: "I am never going to be 'Aragorn' to you, am I?"

"'Strider' is how I think of you," Pippin confessed, but offered: "But I can stop if it bothers you. Does it?"

"No, from you it does not," Aragorn admitted, and turned over; stretching out on his back, he tucked an arm beneath his head. "I like it better than 'Elessar' by far at this moment," said he, softly, and grey eyes fixed intently on Pippin then. "Are you all right?"

"I miss Merry," Pippin sighed, as he sat down on his blankets, drawing his knees up to his chest as he clasped his arms about them. "It's freezing here, and I'll be glad to leave this place and gladder still when it's all over." He paused, and his eyes cut towards the Ranger, weighing the other's silence before he said, on a deliberately chipper note, "But I'm all right."

Aragorn shook his head. But he smiled a little, too, gladdened, it seemed, by this pert response. "Sleep, Pippin. Tomorrow we must regain lost hours." With that, he closed his eyes and spoke no more.

For his part, Pippin tried to obey that advice or order—he was not sure which it was. But though he pulled the blankets over his head and endeavored quite earnestly to sleep, the cold and the fear of the Dead lay heavy upon him, even if not so heavily as within the tunnel beneath the mountains, thwarting his efforts if not his exhaustion. After a chill, fitful hour, he rose and moved his blankets, curling up at Strider's side. Warmer then, but restless still, he lay with his eyes shut until, some time later, he felt Aragorn stir and then rise. Blearily, Pippin peered out from beneath his blankets, and found Aragorn buckling his sword-belt back on. "Is it time yet?" he whispered.

"Near enough. Wake the others," he told Pippin, who rose tiredly and obeyed. Not that many needed waking: it seemed few had slept, and that most of the men had spent the night waiting for the dawn call. Which, Pippin realized, seemed to have come early, for it was still dark with no sign of sunrise in the east nor even of the stars. _It would be just our luck if there were a storm,_ he thought, and sighed. But storm or no, they would ride. In short order, the Grey Company stood ready to depart, and this time, Aragorn took Pippin up before him on Roheryn's back.

Halbarad joined them. "How far today?" the lieutenant asked, stroking Teldith's neck soothingly, as the horse minced a bit, nervously.

"We should reach Calembel upon Ciril by sunset. 'Tis some ninety miles."

"Ninety?" Pippin asked, gaping, and got a wry look from Halbarad, who simply raised his arm and, without looking back, called:

"Fall out!" Pippin's teeth rattled as his head snapped back, so swiftly did Roheryn respond to that order, and then they were charging down the hill with an apparent disregard for its steepness, making for the road that ran below it. Nevertheless, despite such speed, Pippin felt Roheryn surge forward as they reached the flats, and the thunder of hooves roared in his ears all that day. For they did not stop; at times they would slow, sometimes even to a walk, but never did they pause, for the day was dark. The sun never rose, and that night, when they camped in the deserted town of Calembel, the stars were shrouded. An ill omen, and the campfire showed Aragorn's face taut with worry that evening. The Grey Company rested some hours, then rose and returned to the road, and the Dead followed ever in their wake, lending speed from fear when tired men and horses might have faltered.

For Pippin's part, it was a blur of darkness, that journey, and perhaps had he not run with Orcs, he could not have endured it. But he held on, and whether he rode with Aragorn or Halbarad, he clung to the saddle 'til his hands were numb and the ache spread up to his shoulders, and he could no longer feel his seat it seemed. Once, Aragorn caught him when he started to slide in his exhaustion, and ever after, his riding companions kept an arm about him, though Pippin did not imagine either Aragorn or Halbarad were any less weary than he. And still the road stretched out before them, seeming endless.

Yet it was not so, and every stride brought them nearer their end. Thus it was that as Pippin crossed Ringló with the Grey Company, heading south for Pelargir, Faramir gained the Rammas Echor, and the Siege of Gondor began.

* * *

  
  
_And he thought of the elven word made for Men—year-sick,_ old—Ardalambion, see ["Common Adjectives"](http://www.uib.no/People/hnohf/vocab.htm#Sindarin).  
  
 _"This is an evil door," he had said quietly. "Death lies beyond it."_ —Cf. "The Passing of the Grey Company", ROTK.  
  
 _"Unhappy man, to be lured by a shadow and a hope for glory"_ —Cf. "The Houses of Healing, RoTK.  
  
 _"Keep your treasures and your secrets, but lend us speed. Or else leave all such and gain yourselves once more—I summon you to the Stone of Erech!"_ —Cf. "The Passing of the Grey Company", ROTK. Actually for most of the discussion over Brego, see the book.  
  
 _"Oathbreakers, why have ye come?"  
  
A roiling gust of wind seemed to tear up the slope, and Aragorn swayed, and his head went back as that airy column rose straight up about him... only to die as suddenly as it had arisen. And in the stillness that followed, as if from far off, a voice cried back: "To fulfil our oath and have peace."_—"The Passing of the Grey Company", ROTK. For the rest of Aragorn's speech, see the same chapter for comparison.


	36. The Road to Minas Tirith

On a grey field, beneath a darkened sky, men moved: infantry on their last legs trotted onward, faces pale above their surcoats, some leaning against each other as they strove to continue, others with friends carried over their shoulders, sword and spear and shield cast aside to manage it. Behind them came horsemen wearing the white tree's likeness, and these, too, walked with heads down as all of them—footmen and cavalry alike—trudged through the haze and gloom.  
  
Of a sudden, one of the riders broke from the company, urging his mount to the rear, ere he pulled up short to stare into the distance. Faramir stood in his stirrups, squinting as he surveyed the field. Not that he could see much, but at that moment, a second rider appeared in a dusty cloud: Damrod rode straight up to his captain, and came to a halt at his side, brutally curbing his terrified mount, cursing as the animal minced and trembled.  
  
"They come, Captain, and quite a few they are. They are nearly upon us," the Ranger lieutenant panted, then swore again. His sweat-streaked face paled, and he flinched at the high, far sound of a Nazgûl looking on, calling, for all they knew, encouragement to those who hunted them.  
  
Faramir's jaw clenched, but he nodded, turning his horse and making for the company he had just left. Sweeping past the knights bringing up the rear, he went straight for the head of the column of infantry, feeling eyes turn toward him as he passed, with Damrod hard on his heels. When he had reached the van and the standard-bearer there, he paused once more, and again turned his mount, so that now he faced the company. Raising his voice, he drew his sword and called out:  
  
"Final orders, men!" Pointing beyond them to the City with the weapon, he cried, "The gates are nigh, and our enemies also. Rearguard, keep your shields on your backs. At the run, now, and hold formation—come what may, hold formation, and do not pause until you have passed the gates! Go!"  
  
After which, Faramir leaned on his horse's neck and coughed violently, dimly aware of Damrod interposing himself between his captain and the men, and leading his horse a little ways away. Faramir simply clung to the reins, helpless against the spasm. His lungs ached and his throat burned, and he had given up on ever clearing his vision of tears. It had been bad enough when the ash had simply rained down upon them. But on the long retreat from Henneth Annûn, through Osgiliath and step by bloody step down the road to the Rammas Echor, passing armies had disturbed the layer of it that lay upon the ground, so that an eagle (were there one to brave the reek and arrows) might have marked their movements by the clouds of ash stirred up. Particularly when their enemies closed with them, the ash rose up thick as fog.  
  
Within those clouds, it was a shadow world. Men squinted, for those four rows forward were indistinct shapes, friend and foe impossible to distinguish. Battle was a chaos under the best of circumstances, and these were far from them: Faramir did not want to think about the number of men killed by their own comrades in a panic of mistaken identity, as someone would come fleeing back into the ranks when a company broke, into the midst of startled and frightened men who, unsure of his name or allegiance, reacted exactly as they had been taught.  
  
Meanwhile, he and his officers—whether of the Rangers or of Boromir's command at Osgiliath, or, lately, companies from the wall that had fallen in with him—were running themselves beyond ragged in the effort to coordinate the retreat: unable to see himself, he sent them in as close as they could to the fighting ranks to see what was afoot and report it back to him. Sometimes they returned; too often, they did not. He himself had tried to keep a watch on the central columns, but in the main, his orders were issued based on the reports of his lieutenants-turned-couriers—on their reports, and on pure faith that nothing had changed dramatically in the time it took for his men to grasp the situation, and return to repeat it to him.  
  
 _Three days_ , Faramir thought wearily. It had been three days of purest unrelieved agony for those covering the retreat—really a rout at this point—and it might well be a fourth. In fact, it was probably fairer to say it was the fourth: though the sun did not show herself, he knew it was late in the day, for the Enemy's ranks were growing bolder. They at least seemed to know where the sun stood, even if the concealing clouds allowed them to walk abroad at any hour.  
  
But Faramir did not want to think of a fourth day—three had been bad enough. This was his second horse; Damrod was on his fourth, and just last night, he had lost one of Boromir's last remaining lieutenants to a sudden charge from the right as the Enemy had pushed them from the walls and onto the fields. Since then, they had been running, ever and anon overtaken by the Enemy's light cavalry, who would rain arrows down upon them. Faramir had put those with shields to the rear, to cover their more vulnerable fellows, but in the end, it was up to his own mounted knights to drive off the raiders, and the slower companies that drew nigh while Faramir's men were otherwise engaged. Only thus had they any hope of reaching the walls and some measure of safety, but the ranks of horsemen were thinning... It occurred to him that they had not given, perhaps, their best account of themselves, but at the moment, he did not care. All that mattered now was that half a mile down the road were the City Gates, and he had to see the remainder of his infantry safely through them before the heavy cavalry could break from their enemies and end this nightmare of a march.  
  
Which meant one more charge. One more charge to clear the enemy from their heels, and then Faramir could take his knights home. _Just one more,_ Faramir told himself, attempting to rally his spirits even as he forcibly mastered the coughing. Damrod was beside him still, and Faramir blinked to find him holding out an unstoppered water skin. "May as well, Captain," Damrod said, sounding hoarse himself. "This is as calm as we'll see until we're behind the gates."  
  
So he said, and left unspoken the unwelcome rest: that they might not make the gates. That the Enemy had driven them this far, and was coming on with sudden speed and ferocity, and that this had to mean something. _Drink up and know a little last relief_ —Damrod had no need to say it, it was in his face when he looked at his captain. Such was the logic of war, and Faramir hesitated only a moment before he took the proffered water skin and tipped his head back.  
  
"Thank you," he murmured when he had done, and passed it back to Damrod, who himself took a few sips. Faramir for his part turned his mount back northwards. Above the ashy haze kicked up by his men, he could see the ramparts and towers of the Minas Tirith—close enough, seemingly, to touch. Between them and himself, a half-mile stretch of land and a company of infantry fleeing as quickly as order permitted. It was time. Turning once more, he glanced at Damrod, who gave him a nod.  
  
Touching his spurs to his mount's sides, he urged the animal forward, to where the knights sat their horses in formation, anticipating his command. Damrod fell into place on his right, and Faramir raised the captain's horn that he rarely used in Ithilien to his lips. As he drew breath, he could see a new cloud forming on the southern horizon: cavalry on the move. His command went out, an incongruously sweet note:  
  
 _Charge!_  
  
  
Obediently, the horses began to move: first at a walk, and though Faramir had seen and ridden dozens of charges—half of them in the past three days, or so it felt—for some reason, this first stage seemed unbearably slow, as if the air had turned to water, or time itself had changed its substance and flowed no more freely but trickled by, each moment passing with an effort and an effort to pass for those who lived it. But at length, they built to a trot, and then to a canter; by then, the second file was shooting over their heads: the Rangers and few mounted bowmen of Boromir's company did not bother with aiming, they simply loosed what they had into the on-coming ash cloud in the hopes of whittling the enemy's numbers somewhat.  
  
Answering arrows came back, and all along the line, shields went up. Faramir felt several of them strike his shield; others fell harmlessly beyond the ranks or passed through them without hitting anyone; but to either side, he saw men and horses fall away, heard the screams of wounded animals and men, and the curses of comrades seeking to avoid trampling fallen friends or being borne down by them.  
  
And then there was no more time for observation. The shapes within the haze became men in red and gold and wild-eyed horses at the last moment—time enough for one good look, ere everything dissolved into chaos. A lance embedded itself in Faramir's shield, and he grunted at the shock of the collision, but did not hesitate: he brought his sword down hard and clove through a weak point in his foe's armor, just at the shoulder. Blood sprayed, and he ducked beneath a scimitar, kneed his mount to the right and caught a horse's flanks in a back-handed slash.  
  
The first pass was over almost before he could think to give the command to turn, but the knights of Boromir's company knew their business, and the Rangers had learned it quickly in the retreat. Horses squealed as their riders commanded them to turn, and the entire formation wheeled, reversing itself to charge back towards the line of Haradrim, who also were turning. _Valar be praised!_ some part of Faramir's mind thought, for the Haradrim might have continued; they might have decided to make their final run on the infantry, who would have slain some of them, certainly, but encumbered and exhausted as they were, and without the line of spearmen to bring down a cavalry charge, would have gone down to death within sight of safety.  
  
Which meant only that it was his men who would die before the gates. He heard the warning call from the right: "They're flanking us!" And indeed, they were, to either side. Both Haradrim and Gondorrim had made their pass as short as they could, Faramir because he had to be concerned about his foot men, and so needed to keep the distance between his knights and the Haradric line as small as possible, that they might be able to catch their enemies before they could make more than one pass through the vulnerable retreating ranks. The Haradrim had perhaps counted upon this, and upon the fact that the shorter the distance between them, the more their numbers favored them: there was not enough space between them for either company to reach full speed, which meant Faramir's company would not have force enough to break through the enemy lines and retreat. The Haradrim would mob them, and between their numbers and the exhaustion of Gondor's men, there could be only one end to this tale.  
  
All of this Faramir recognized in a split instant, and as he urged his men onward—for what other choice was there?—he raised his sword high, as the words welled up from some depth of his soul and came spilling from his lips unbidden:  
  
" _Rage, O spirit of Gondor—sing for us!_  
Enflame us, men of Gondor, to rise up now and ride:  
For wrath and ruin and this day's ending! "  
  
And then the Shadow fell. It was as if his very words had called the night upon them, and it came upon bat's wings, and screamed with a fell voice. Faramir's horse shrieked and went nearly straight up, pawing the air, while Faramir clung the reins with hands gone numb suddenly. Cold pierced him through and through, and nausea struck hard. He was not alone in that—he could hear someone retching nearby, and others weeping, calling out in terror as the wraith-fear stretched out its invisible claws to catch and shake them. Everything faded.  
  
And then a horn call broke through the blackness, even as a coughing roar sounded, and the air roiled about them. Faramir blinked, and found he could see once more, found that somehow, he was still horsed, and that despite the terror, he was facing forward, forcing his shivering mount to stand.  
  
"Amroth for Gondor! Amroth to Faramir!" voices shouted, and a blue standard fluttered in the foul wind. Raising his eyes, he saw the fell-beast, its wings beating awkwardly as it struggled to stay aloft. There was an arrow just behind and beneath one great wing, and the Nazgûl that cried out were dismayed for once, as their fellow attempted to pull back. The Haradrim were calling out as well, one part of their formation attempting to turn to meet the onslaught of the Swan knights, as the others continued on towards Faramir's disordered ranks.  
  
"Form up!" he cried, and seizing the horn, blew once more upon it. "Square up!"  
  
Somehow, they managed to pull four lines together, stacked one behind the other. It was the best they could do with no time left them, and when the point of the Haradric formation collided, it met four ranks head on. The line bent, then broke, as Faramir's men—those he had managed to order—absorbed the shock, and line after line slashed and cut and bludgeoned those who passed through them. It was a bloody affair—momentum favored the Haradrim, and they took many down with them as they passed, but not without cost. Those who broke through in the end, lagging well behind the rest of the line, emerged bleeding and fatally slowed, as the more scattered remnants of Faramir's light cavalry fell upon them.  
  
Then of a sudden, they were enveloped in blue and silver tabards, as the Swan knights arrived at last. "Faramir!" There was a buzzing in his ears, as if a hundred flies beat their wings within his head at once, and Faramir was dimly aware of himself, of his body as he raised his sword overhead, shouted some incomprehensible order, kneed his bleeding, gasping horse about. Within, he was reeling, as if sunstruck, and all the while his body continued as if by habit to play the captain's part. "Faramir-lad!"  
  
"Get in line, form up, men, _now!_ "  
  
"Faramir," Imrahil's voice spoke from nigh at hand, and Faramir blinked at last, and then again, 'til the blue shape before him became the Prince of Dol Amroth. His uncle was looking concernedly at him, keeping a certain safe distance as he said again, "Faramir, answer me if you can. Are you hurt?"  
  
"Am I...?" Faramir shook his head, winced, but he glanced down at himself and found nothing obviously wrong. No reason, certainly, to be breathing as hard as he was, surely. He sheathed his sword, and clutched the pommel of his saddle against a wave of weakness.  
  
A gauntleted hand grasped his upper arm, and glancing sideways, he saw his uncle, now beside him. "Talk to me, lad," Imrahil murmured quietly. "Do you need a surgeon?"  
  
"No." The word came out thickly, and Faramir shut his eyes, swallowed painfully. _Breathe!_ Opening his eyes once more, he forced himself to sit up straight, not to sag in the saddle, and as if that habit of posture were some magical key, he felt his head beginning to clear at last. "I am all right, Uncle. Another pass and it might have been otherwise, but you came just in time."  
  
"You are certain?" Imrahil asked, eyes worried still.  
  
"Aye. Well timed, your arrival, and well-shot as well."  
  
"The fell-beast, you mean? That was not our doing. I brought no archers with me."  
  
Faramir frowned. "But it was not one of mine, either. I saw the arrow. At that angle, it came from beyond us."  
  
"Then it must have been from one of the archers on the ramparts, though I cannot fathom the eye that can pick such a target and hit it," Imrahil replied.  
  
"Nor I," Faramir replied, staring at the great walls of Minas Tirith. Then: "But we should return to the City now, while we can. How many men have I still? Where is Damrod? Mablung? Is Teldar here?" Faramir looked about, seeking his lieutenants. He could see his men, back in line again amid Dol Amroth's ranks. Faces grey with exhaustion and fear looked back at him, but they sat their horses nevertheless, awaiting their orders. "Damrod?"  
  
"I am here, Captain!" Damrod appeared suddenly. He had a cut above one eye, and was walking a horse—not the one he had ridden earlier, but apparently his fifth mount. It seemed familiar, and Faramir frowned at it, and at the odd mass hung over the back. Grimly, his lieutenant continued: "I have Mablung."  
  
"Ah." It did not hit as hard as it ought to have. _Shock comes in many forms, but its common feature is the inability to feel._ He had learned that once, as a lad still training for war. And he had found, in the years that followed such lessons, that shock had its uses. It let men continue when otherwise they might not. Shaking his head, he gestured for Damrod to mount up. "Let us get the men home. Come!"  
  
So it was that the Swan knights and the knights of the City and the Ranger-dragoons returned to Minas Tirith. The men on the ramparts sent up a cheer for them, but Faramir scarcely heard it. He had enough to do to command his face as he sat and looked out over the pitifully reduced company he had brought home. _And what of the infantry?_ he wondered. Catching sight of a pair of men standing upon the stairs near the gates, one of them in a torn, dusty, and bloody tabard of the City, and with a commander's badge still discernible upon it, he turned to Damrod.  
  
"Get the men settled in the barracks on Rath Ennorin. If needed, they will be sent for, but my orders for now are to sleep the next two watches. Find the rest of the company and tell them likewise. Send someone to speak with the armory about their gear. Then go get some rest yourself, Damrod," he told his lieutenant.  
  
"Aye, my lord," Damrod replied, and saluted ere he hailed one of the healer's lads near the funerary cart to come take his horse and its burden.  
  
"Sound orders, Nephew," Imrahil said, as he reined his mount in beside Faramir. "You should follow them."  
  
"I cannot, Uncle, and you know it," Faramir replied, turning back to the pair of commanders upon the stairs. "Father will want my account, and there are things he should hear immediately." Faramir sighed as he undid the chin-strap and pulled his helm off. He had not thought overly much of Frodo and Sam since the beginning of the retreat—there had been no time, though when first the scouts had brought news of the oncoming army, he had spared them a thought, wishing them speed to escape Ithilien ere the Enemy's forces could take the land entirely. But now that he had a moment to himself, the need to report to Denethor about that matter returned full force, and dread with it, for he doubted not how his father would receive such news.  
  
Which was perhaps why he clicked his tongue and urged his weary horse towards the stairs, ignoring Imrahil who trailed after him. Swinging down from the saddle, he handed his mount off to a handler, and took the stairs, his uncle right behind him.  
  
"Captain," both commanders murmured, as they bowed their heads and crossed their hands upon their breasts in salute.  
  
"Commanders," he replied, and he peered closely at the battle-filthy badge that the one bore. _North Gate company,_ he realized, and the name returned to him then. "What news of the foot, Commander Ingold?"  
  
"As many as last left you made the gates, and we await our orders, my lord," the man replied.  
  
"Good man," Faramir murmured, relieved, and laid a hand upon the other's shoulder in gratitude. Then: "Speaking of good men, I would know who made that shot from the walls. Did you see him?"  
  
"No, my lord, but—" Ingold began, but was spared the need to continue, for just at that moment, a small number of men clattered down the stairs, one of them wearing a captain's badge on his black and white surcoat.  
  
"I have brought him, Captain," the newcomer said, and gestured then to a tall, lithe soldier who removed his helm to reveal pale golden hair. At that, Ingold stiffened, surprised, as the captain continued: "This is Legolas the elf, and glad are we to have him."  
  
 _Legolas?_ For a split second, Faramir could not quite grasp the feeling of familiarity that that name brought with it. But the errand to his father brought it back swiftly enough: _Legolas the elf, one of Frodo's companions._ And so also one of _Boromir's_ companions...  
  
Beside him, Imrahil was speaking: "Long have we heard of the skill of the Elves with bow and arrow, but only in tales. I never thought to learn the truth of them. You have our thanks, Master Elf."  
  
"You are most welcome, my lord prince," Legolas replied, and made him a polite bow.  
  
"Yes, you have my thanks as well," Faramir said, remembering himself, and the elf nodded this time. "Is my brother here?" he asked, glancing about for Boromir's familiar figure, though not hopefully. _If he were here, surely Uncle would have told me; surely, unless he were with Father, he would have come to greet me himself by now..._ To his surprise, it was not Legolas who answered, but the captain of the watch who had brought the elf:  
  
"He has not come, my lord," the man replied, regretfully, and Faramir felt his dread deepen. _Where are you, Brother?_ It was on the tip of his tongue to demand an explanation, but mindful of the anxious faces of the soldiers standing by, he bit back on the impulse, saying instead:  
  
"That will have to wait, then. But we shall speak again, I hope, for I should like to hear your tale," he said to Legolas.  
  
"As it happens, the lord Steward bid me present myself to him again, once you had returned. If I may," Legolas said, glancing at the guardsman who stood closest to him, "perhaps I could accompany you to the Citadel. We could speak after we learned the Steward's will."  
  
 _Afterwards._ Faramir considered this a moment, but then nodded. _It has kept this long, the news can wait a little longer, whatever it may be._ "Very well. Ingold," he said to the North Gate lieutenant-commander, "find Lieutenant Damrod—he shall tell you my orders. My lord prince," he said then, turning toward Imrahil, "you have command here until orders come saying otherwise."  
  
"As you will it, Captain," Imrahil replied, and nodded, and if his speech was formal, his eyes were clearly worried.  
  
"I am fine, Uncle," Faramir insisted in a low voice, as the two of them hurried back down the stairs and towards the courier stables for fresh horses.  
  
"You have a strange notion of 'fine,' Nephew, if that is so. But enough," Imrahil said, silencing Faramir with a quick press of his shoulder. "I shall say no more for the moment, save that I hope your lord father knows well enough when to rest a man. Go now! I shall attend to matters here."  
  
"Thank you," Faramir said, pausing a moment to watch as Imrahil made his way back to his men and began dispersing them to the wall. Then he turned to Legolas and his escort, who had followed at a polite distance to allow Imrahil and Faramir to speak. "Let us hurry, gentlemen, for there is much to tell and little time to tell it in."  
  


* * *

  
  
_Rage, O spirit of Gondor—sing for us!_  
Enflame us, men of Gondor, to rise up now and ride:  
For wrath and ruin and this day's ending!  
  
First line inspired by Homer, last line by Éomer (obviously). See the opening of "Iliad" for the former, and "The Battle of the Pelennor Fields," RotK, 131 for the latter.


	37. Besieged

When the Nazgûl had cried out, Legolas had known a moment of utter despair—the world had faded, and he had groped as if blind, so thick and suddenly did the Darkness descend, until he had belatedly managed to shutter his Sight. By then, the creature had passed over, and he had known immediately by the feel of the air that any precise shot was out of the question: the fell-beast had been moving too swiftly, its descent had been too twisting, and the angle too oblique for even an Elf to guarantee a clean hit, for the air about it had billowed and swelled, first one way, then another, with its passage.  
  
 _Like the Silence itself,_ he thought. Given that he had been still unsteady, and that despite his efforts to shield himself, Shadow had still rippled across his vision, he supposed he ought to be grateful he had hit anything at all. Nevertheless, it but darkened his mood that he could not claim another fell-beast, in addition to the one he had shot above Rauros. _That was a mighty shot in the dark, my friend,_ Gimli had said then, and the absence of that voice now was an ache in his breast as he rode with Faramir and Bereldan up the steep ways of Minas Tirith once more.  
  
For that matter, Faramir, too, brought back grief: he had the look of his brother, though there was that in his voice that suggested already to elven ears the difference between them. Less angry, more weary, and possibly, Legolas thought, recalling what he had seen in the other's eyes ere Faramir had spoken, more wise. Yet overall, there lay some dark fear or care—he could hear it, feel it in the other's silence. That darkness was of some concern, given Boromir's fall.  
  
But the Ring is well beyond us all now, he reminded himself. _At the least, we shall not again have a chance to reach for it, however we end._  
  
They came at length to the Court of the Fountain, before the Citadel, and there they dismounted. Faramir stood facing his horse, hands running over the tack and harness, as if assuring himself they were well-kept and cinched, but Legolas saw the tension in his back, the too-careful quality of his caresses as he moved from harness to horse. When he eventually turned and beckoned Legolas to follow, his face had that stillness that comes to those who have endured too much and are nearly numb with it.  
  
 _But not quite numb enough not to feel it,_ he thought, as Faramir turned to him once more, his eyes bespeaking the unrest of his soul. Once more, he seemed to wish to speak, but again, he suppressed the impulse, and simply waved Legolas to accompany him.  
  
In silence, they passed through the doors of the Citadel, the guards asking no questions this time, though they were told the Steward would meet with them not in the Hall of Kings, but in the War Room. This proved to be a room upon the second floor: circular, hung with maps, and with an immense table in the middle. Upon it, Legolas discovered, was painted a detailed map of Gondor—Gondor as it had been at its height, before Anórien's people had grown few, when Rohan had been still Calenardhon, and Umbar had been reckoned part of the kingdom. A glass cut to fit the table covered it to keep it from harm, for upon it stood several markers, some red, others white, and still others—the Rohirrim, Legolas realized—green. At the moment, there was a dismaying confluence of red markers about the City.  
  
Several men stood clustered on one side of the table. Two of them seemed to be counselors, a third bore the device of a key upon his surcoat in addition to the tree, crown, and stars, and a fourth, a portly, greying man, was armored, with an axe at his belt and a black helm under one arm, as if he intended to go straight from the hall to the field. He dwarfed the Steward with whom he spoke, yet the moment they all turned to look at the new arrivals, there could be no doubting who commanded. Denethor's eyes fixed upon his son's face, with a sharpness that surprised the Elf; even more surprising, though, was Faramir's reaction. Legolas had seen much of war over the long years, and though he knew Faramir hardly at all, still, he recognized the almost imperceptible signs of a warrior steeling himself for battle.  
  
"My lord steward," Faramir said formally, and made his father a bow when he stood within arm's length. Then to the other counselors assembled, "Gentlemen," and got a few nods and answering murmurs.  
  
"Captain Faramir," the Steward replied, and Legolas wondered whether there were not the slightest hint of irony in his voice. But if there were, his next words were serious: "What have you to report?"  
  
"Much, though much of it you know already," the younger man replied, indicating the red markers. Nevertheless, he proceeded to give his account of the retreat, beginning in Henneth Annûn, with the race to reach Osgiliath before their enemies did, and then the long, hard crossing of the river and retreat to the Rammas. After that, his voice grew quieter, his words more spare still, especially when he spoke of the ravaging of the Nazgûl, who would swoop and slay from time to time, slowing them, that the legions of Orcs, and Haradric and Rhûnic cavalry could close with them.  
  
"We lost too many on the retreat. Cair Andros is gone, I do not doubt it—we lost the scouts covering the Black Gate nigh on three weeks ago, as you know. It seems clear now they were destroyed so that forces from the Black Gate or from Dûrthang could move unhindered and unannounced to take the Isle. Osgiliath is in the hands of the Enemy, and Pelennor also now. Thanks to Dol Amroth, we have more knights than we might have otherwise. And we may have one fewer hellhawk to contend with, thanks to Legolas' bowmanship—" here, Faramir inclined his head politely to the Elf "—but eight remain, and the Nazgûl do not fall to arrows. What hope we have must come from abroad."  
  
"So it appears," Denethor replied, grimly, as he turned to gaze critically down at the map once more. "But the Rohirrim shall not arrive for some days yet—perhaps as long as a week. And with so few men as you brought home with you—" Faramir, Legolas noted, stiffened somewhat at this comment "—and with Pelargir's failure to respond to the call to arms, neither skill nor luck may endure so long."  
  
A heavy silence descended, as the lords of the council digested this unwelcome pronouncement. At last, Faramir spoke again: "A week is a long while for us. But we may last, and perhaps even our fall may not be in vain. Rohan is not the only force in this world."  
  
"And what other force ought we to look to?" Denethor demanded, shortly.  
  
At this, Faramir frowned, seeming surprised, and he glanced at Legolas, who stared back, perplexed as any who stood listening. There was confusion in the young man's eyes, and a question also: _What has passed here?_ he seemed to say with that look, ere he turned back to his father. "I had thought," the Captain replied carefully, "that you would know, but perhaps you have had other news."  
  
"Nay, continue," the Steward urged when Faramir paused. "What other news might I have heard, Faramir, and from whom?"  
  
"Boromir might have returned by now," Faramir started to say, but Denethor cut him off.  
  
"You must have learned as soon as you passed the gates that he has not," the Steward said, eyeing his younger son intently now. "You could not have thought, then, that I should have known anything of other forces in the world from your brother. Precisely what word do you believe I should have had of these unknown other forces, _captain_?" The none too subtle emphasis on that last word was no gentle prompting—that was quite evident, and a little color rose to Faramir's cheeks.  
  
But when he spoke, his voice held no trace of embarrassment or wrath—indeed, he spoke without expression and as he did, comprehension—and with it, dismay—dawned for Legolas: "I had thought that Legolas might have told you something of the Ringbearer's Quest, my lord, for I am told he traveled with him."  
  
A stunned silence greeted his revelation, as all stared at Faramir. But whatever questions the other lords might have had, they were deferred, as all collectively looked to Denethor, who was giving his son a very flat look. "Indeed?" he replied, evenly, and glanced at Legolas—or rather, past him, and Legolas stiffened as Bereldan and the heavy, greying warrior, who stood nearest him, each seized an arm. As they did, the Steward clapped his hands, and in a twinkling, an esquire appeared with a chair, in which he seated himself regally. Touching his fingertips together, then, he leaned his elbows on the arms of the chair and said coolly, "Let us begin again. Report, Faramir, Captain of Gondor: tell us of this quest. How have you come to know of it, and when did you learn of it?"  
  
Thus began one of the most excruciating courts that Legolas had ever had the misfortune to attend, as Faramir told of the ambush of the Orcs, the rescue of Frodo and Sam, his questioning of them, their account of what the quest, and Faramir's eventual choice to let them go free. Throughout, the Steward did not move, did not look away, his attention given utterly over to his son, who must have wished dearly for some reprieve from that burning regard. For that matter, while the Steward's counselors were too well-versed in politics to betray themselves by fidgeting, the air in the room was one of acute discomfort, and Legolas wondered what troubled them more: the news of the Ring, Faramir's disobedience of the law of the land, or bearing witness to this bitter confessional between father and son.  
  
When at last, Faramir had come to the end of his tale, he finished, saying, "That is why I thought you might have had other news: that matters had changed since the Ringbearer left the Company, and that Legolas had come to bring news of it, my lord."  
  
"I see," Denethor said frostily at length, when the heavy silence that followed Faramir's speech threatened to become unbearable. "Amply am I repaid for sending your brother to Imladris rather than you, I see."  
  
"Father—"  
  
"Beyond that, you would have me believe him party to this nonsensical quest, as you do. Or is that it, Faramir?" Denethor demanded, tone hardening still more. "You spoke with these Halflings, you aided them—in defiance of the law—and you returned to me with this tale; and now, having exposed this one—" a jerk of his head at Legolas "—as another's agent, you expect me to take this twice-removed tale as it is told? Particularly in your brother's absence? I think not."  
  
Grey eyes shifted, and Legolas found himself the object of as cold a gaze as ever he had endured from a Man. "My son may be a fool—a matter he may yet have time to regret—but I do not know yet whether you are crafty or merely a useful pawn of so-called allies. What reason would an Elf, who by the account given was not, in fact, the leader of this misguided company, have to play me, and gamble Gondor's future on false appearances? And what have you to say of Boromir's absence? Speak!"  
  
There was no refusing such an order—not if one desired to escape a cell, yet he knew just enough of Aragorn's motives to know he could never satisfy the Steward with his little knowledge, and as for Boromir... A strange reluctance seized him. He ought at least to be able to give a father news of his son, and yet something held his tongue. Something in the Steward's eyes and voice he misliked. _Nay, more than that,_ the Elf thought; _I do not trust it, this... this rage of his._ Lacking any other recourse, he retreated to the one contingency plan he had. "Of your son, I can say nothing, for I know not where he is now. But as for the rest, I have a message for you, lord steward," he said, quietly.  
  
"Father, please, hea—" Faramir began, urgently, but was cut off.  
  
"You, sir, will do as you are bidden, or Gondor has no use for you. Now _be still_ ," the Steward snapped, and Faramir, clearly stung, stared at him a moment, and his lips parted as if he would speak. But ire and any such intention faded in the face of Denethor's wrath, and the Steward's younger son resumed his stance without a word. "As for you, Master Elf," Denethor continued, "you say you have yet another message. What guarantee have we that it is any more true than the last?"  
  
"None. But I think it will interest you nevertheless, for Aragorn said I should deliver it only if you came to disbelieve me," Legolas replied, gambling that admission of conspiracy might well serve better than conciliatory words, and he lifted his chin slightly to gaze steadily at Denethor. He was nevertheless somewhat surprised when the Steward abruptly nodded.  
  
"Bereldan, bring it here. Forlong, if you would."  
  
"Aye, my lord," Bereldan said, and Legolas sighed, bowing his head as he submitted to the indignity of the guardsman searching through his scrip, while the other man shifted to take hold of his other arm as well. Eventually, he drew forth the letter, held it up with a questioning look to Legolas, who nodded confirmation, and then withdrew to his lord's side. But just ere he would have broken the seal, Denethor stopped him, with a hand on his arm. "My lord?" Bereldan asked, confused.  
  
"Give it to me," the Steward commanded.  
  
This time, it was Legolas' captor—Forlong, apparently—who protested: "My lord, if it is some trick or poison on the seal—"  
  
"I am aware of this, Forlong," Denethor replied, and nevertheless took the letter, staring for a long moment at the seal. Or rather, at the lettering about the plain, unmarked wax. But then he broke the seal and unfolded the paper to read the message within. Whatever it was, it must not have been long, though Legolas did wonder what Aragorn had written. For though the Steward's face was a mask, his voice, when he spoke, was taut and strained:  
  
"Forlong, release him."  
  
"But my lord Steward—"  
  
"Do as I say," Denethor cut him off, and Forlong sighed.  
  
"As you wish, my lord," he replied, and Legolas flexed his fingers unobtrusively, for the man had the grip needed to wield the axe at his belt. Meanwhile, the Steward was closing the letter, recreasing the folds with sharp, swift movements, so that Legolas wondered he did not tear the paper. Silence reigned otherwise, until at last, Faramir spoke again.  
  
"What are your orders, my lord?"  
  
"My orders?" The Steward moved suddenly and quickly, 'til he stood eye to eye with his son, who endeavored to meet his gaze. A moment they stood thus, and resentment hung so thick in the air between them, it was a wonder they could breathe. But at last, Faramir dropped his eyes, and bowed his head. His father made a small noise of disgust, ere he said, bitterly: "The hour is late when you seek to learn obedience. For all your loyalty, long-since given elsewhere, I should have you running water for the healers, but with Boromir absent, you are needed to command on the walls. If we fall, you may at least witness the fruits of your folly. Go then. And do not let me see you again until the war is won or the City taken.  
  
"As for you," the Steward continued, turning to Legolas, "be grateful to your master's claim on you, but should we live to see Pelennor clear of our foes, then you will bear a message to him, and after that, you shall not set foot past the gates again.  
  
"For the rest, you know your duty—see to it!"  
  
Which was clearly dismissal, and the counselors swiftly filed out, led by Forlong, who left muttering to himself and shaking his head. Faramir walked with a measured step, brisk but deliberately slower than Forlong's—clearly an effort to retreat with dignity, though no few looks were cast in his direction by the departing counselors. Legolas followed in his wake.  
  
When they had gained the doors, and stood once more in the empty courtyard, the young man stopped abruptly, and he gripped the hilt of his sword hard with one hand as he stared at the dead tree with its fountain. Legolas could hear the harshness of his breathing, as he struggled for composure: once, twice, thrice, he inhaled and then he lifted his head again. The Prince of Mirkwood hesitated, unsure whether he ought to disturb him, but recalling their words upon the stairs, he approached the other, though carefully.  
  
"Lord Faramir," Legolas said quietly, but a raised hand stopped him.  
  
"My father may think you a pawn to be used against us, but I am not yet certain. Maybe he is wrong, and I even hope that he is. But maybe he is right, and I am a fool who deserves no better than my lot, and indeed, deserves worse," he said. Turning to Legolas, he gazed hard at him, grey eyes dark as his father's, but mercifully without the same rage, though there was anger aplenty in them. "I would know which of us is right. Tell me, therefore, if you would truly see Frodo's quest, mad or otherwise, succeed: tell me what happened to my brother, ever the heart of this City, that he is not here to speak of these matters?"  
  
And Legolas, who had not failed to note the silence of Faramir's tale where Boromir was concerned, and who had assumed it due to the hobbits' reticence, suddenly understood. "I see I am not the only one, then, who would keep certain unwelcome truths from your father to get a hearing," he murmured.  
  
Faramir closed his eyes, and the muscle along his jaw tightened, ere he mastered himself. Opening his eyes once more, he said simply: "Tell me."  
  
Two words, and in them, a wealth of pain beneath their calm delivery—and a darkness that Legolas knew entirely too well. And so he answered: "Boromir did not come because he was slain saving us from the orcs and their arrows on Parth Galen, shortly after Frodo and Sam left us. If he had not done it, another would have had to, or we all should have perished, and Frodo and Sam might have been caught. Boromir took it for his task, and gave us no choice in the matter. He was valiant."  
  
Legolas paused. Faramir had the look of one who had taken a knife to the gut, and he bowed his head, pressing a hand over his eyes, then lowering it to fold his arms tightly across his chest. "They said he had repented," he murmured. Then: "Do not spare me, Legolas. There is worse to tell in this."  
  
"Not after the battle, and what came before it, you seem to know already," the Prince of Mirkwood replied, and sighed. "But if you are asking, then yes, it is as you believe: the Ring took him, he tried to betray us, was prevented, and when the chance arose, he took it and redeemed himself with his blood."  
  
"And his body?"  
  
"We gave him to the flames, deeming his ashes safe from defilement."  
  
"Ashes..." Faramir trailed off, and shook his head, and a booted toe scuffed at a small pile of them, leaving a dark smear on the white stones. He sighed, and glanced up at Legolas, measuringly. "I would have slain Frodo and Sam both, as the law demands, had Frodo not spoken," he said at length. "And though my father finds me wanting in obedience, I would have gladly fulfilled that same law, and redeemed my outlawry, if you had sought to deceive me in this."  
  
"How can you be certain that I do not?" Legolas asked.  
  
"Let us say that there is nothing that wounds like the truth, and I hope that I have learned by now its particular sting," came the reply.  
  
And Legolas, thinking of towers and ruins and the bitterness of revelations, said: "I should say that you have."  
  
"Truth, though, is not yet obedience, and I have my orders," Faramir said, and gave Legolas a quick, appraising look. Then: "Though you are not pledged to us, and Father has given you no charge, I should be remiss if I did not ask you to come with me, for any man who can put an arrow through a hellhawk's hide is one we need."  
  
"And I should be remiss if I refused you," Legolas replied. Faramir grunted, but the answer seemed to satisfy him. Legolas fell in step with him as Faramir turned and began silently walking toward the tunnel and their horses. The guards acknowledged them, and the boy assigned to the courier stables was already bringing their horses out to them, having seen them approaching. Still, only when they had mounted, did Faramir speak again:  
  
"Thank you," he said.  
  
But Legolas, after a moment, shook his head. "Do not, lord, for there is nothing in this to thank," he replied. "What is right aside, I have my reasons that would bid me fight were there naught but Orcs left in the world. And for the other matter, if I have done aught, it is only what is proper, and lately done at that."  
  
Perhaps Faramir truly had learned to recognize the pain of truth, for he did not contest Legolas; instead, he said only, "Come then," and spurred his horse forward, back down into the darkness below.  
  


* * *

  
  
The Prince of Dol Amroth was waiting for them upon their return, standing above the gates, watching as with the dusk, gloom gathered more thickly, hiding their enemy from sight. "What news, Nephew?" he asked.  
  
"None we did not know," Faramir replied. He stared out over the ramparts, and it seemed to Legolas that he went grey as his father in that moment. But then, the captain shook his head and laid a hand upon Imrahil's arm. "This will not end soon, and we have days yet before we may look to see the Rohirrim. I have already seen three come and go, but I cannot see a fourth without some rest. Can you hold the wall for some hours, Uncle?"  
  
"First sensible thing you have said since we met," Imrahil replied, but he gave his nephew a slight smile and nodded. "Go take some sleep. Return to us rested and your men shall fight the better for the sight of you."  
  
"Thank you, Uncle. Oh," Faramir touched Legolas' arm then, drawing the elf forward. "Father has left Legolas' position to me, and I can think of nowhere he shall be needed more than here, above the gates. When they find the walls cannot be scaled or breached, they must try for the gates. Then we may need one who can fell a Nazgûl's mount."  
  
So it was that Legolas took up the night watch, for with the promise of battle, he would not sleep, and besides, he was concerned by the two latest assaults of the Darkness upon him, and feared the dreams that might come. Especially when the noise of hammers and other instruments began to sound, telling of some mighty work in the night, he was glad not to learn of them in his sleep, for he knew not what tale his mind might have told then, when the Darkness crept in.  
  
But with dawn came revelation: trenches and pits were forming beyond the range of bowshot and catapult, and fires began to burn. Wains with parts for engines were drawing on, and as far as the eye could see in the haze that covered all, black-armored soldiery of Mordor camped rank upon rank on the field. Faramir, who returned with the dawn-call, took one look and his face hardened, but he nodded, as if to say, 'So be it!' and then went to make the rounds with Imrahil.  
  
And it was eerie, but it was almost as if the Enemy knew their movements, for not until they both returned did the harsh horns sound upon the field, signaling the beginning of the assault. And what strange beginning it seemed at first! For as the Men of Gondor and Legolas watched, in equal parts impatient and dreading to learn what the Enemy had devised for them, orcs emerged, bearing stout pikes, sharp on either end—the sort of pike one might dig in against cavalry had one the chance.  
  
"What, think they that we shall be riding against them?" men murmured, and watched, wondering. When all had been dug in at about a man's width apart, in a long line that went the length of the trenches about the City, the orcs disappeared for a time. And a strange sound began to be heard then: a wailing and groaning, as of many wordless voices.  
  
Which was exactly what it proved to be. Men cried out in horror, then, for now came the Haradrim and the Khandians under their banners, and they bore over their heads, bound and writhing, prisoners—whether taken from Cair Andros in the last assault, or from more southerly posts, whether recently captive or wretched with years in chains, it was impossible to tell often, although many wore uniforms men recognized. High they were borne, and when they came to the line of orc-laid pikes, then four men would hold them over them, turn them, and then with horrible slowness, lower them onto the pikes. The screaming did not end soon, and upon the wall, men cursed and wept bitterly, and a few even loosed arrows, aiming not for the Haradrim or Khandians, but for the prisoners themselves, to end their agony.  
  
But the captain of Mordor's hosts was crafty, for the lord of the Nazgûl had had long centuries in which to practice torment, and he had calculated carefully where to set his gruesome display. None of the arrows struck, and indeed, the Khandians went on about their business undisturbed as they began bringing some buckets or baskets up, and emptying them before the prisoners, whose struggles were fast weakening.  
  
"What _is_ that?" men whispered, and feared to learn the answer. Small and red and many, clearly, but none could tell more, save Legolas, whose eyes were keener than any Man's, and in that hour he cursed that gift.  
  
"Tongues," he murmured. "They cut their tongues out first—so they could scream but not speak." At that, even Faramir, who stood hard by, having sent the prince of Dol Amroth to make a round on the western stretch of the wall, to try to calm men there, paled slightly. But he did not flinch, only gripped his sword hilt the harder. Less hardy souls could be heard vomiting, while their fellows, perhaps desiring not to look outward as much as to help, sank down with them, arms laid about their shoulders, while the spasms went on.  
  
But there was no time for comfort, even cold comfort. For then were loosed fiery missiles, and they flew over the wall to crush houses and barracks, stables and forges. Men soon were scrambling in their efforts to quench the flames, which burned like witch-fire, resisting their efforts. And all that day, while the Nazgûl on high screamed, not a single orc or man came within bowshot, and the archers upon the wall looked in vain for a mark. Only when the masses of orcs and trolls began to move toward the walls did they come even within range of the catapults, and then the Men of Gondor had some revenge for their slain fellows.  
  
Even this, however, was less than it might have been. The fires cut off many companies from each other while they lasted, or else rubble did, and in any case, the horror of the morning and the continuing assaults of the Nazgûl upon men's spirits did their work: despair took many, who fled while they could to the Second Circle, and those who remained—all the gate guard company under Faramir's direct command, the Rangers who remained, Imrahil's men, and others who had fought the darkness for long years and would not surrender now—these suffered the coming of the Darkness, when the Nazgûl swept over, and all light seemed to fade, and the mind emptied, awaiting nothing but death.  
  
Legolas knew well what they felt, for he felt it, too, and worse, for he heard the Silence at the heart of the cries of the Nazgûl, and he thought it a bitter gift that, by the second day of such torments, he had learned to shoot through them, without losing aim. For by then, the assault had ceased to be missiles only, but large numbers of orcs and trolls swept towards the gates, bearing with them rams to try their steel. The defenders rained arrows and stone down upon them, and oil that burned, leaving bodies piled man high, yet still they came, undeterred, to fling themselves against the gates. "We shall run out of arrows before they run out of men," Faramir said grimly to Imrahil.  
  
"I have sent couriers from among my knights up to the storehouses in higher circles to bring more down with them," Imrahil replied. "At least we know they shall return. In the mean time, there would be more arrows if we kept men with us."  
  
"I had wanted to keep the Rangers at the gates, and the Swan knights together, for they know best how to fight together," Faramir said. "But we cannot hold the walls with them alone, we need all men to stand who bear arms. We must break some of our companies up: send small numbers of them to take command where men are most weakened. And you and I, Uncle, must make ourselves more known as well to them."  
  
So passed three days of near ceaseless activity for the prince and the Steward's son. Legolas did not accompany Faramir on his rounds, for Faramir wanted him above the gates. "Men look to you, for they know now who it was that felled the beast, and if you have not command in the City, still, you give them heart, and we need that above the gates especially. Remain here." And so Legolas remained, and as the hours crawled by into days and nights, he watched the heart go out of every man on the walls anyway, yet still they fought on—stubbornness, or habit, he knew not which, but bows bent and stone went crashing down upon the heads of their enemies still.  
  
But it was not enough. The fifth day dawned bloody, for in the night, siege towers built in Osgiliath had been brought up from the river and now to the very walls—dozens of them, too many even for the catapults to destroy, drawn on by the _mumâkil_ of Harad, and within them orcs and Men, waiting for the signal to storm across the bridge-door and onto the walls. Then those who were left upon the walls began to retreat, insofar as they were able, for cut off from each other as they often were by the rubble and fire in the streets, they could not stand firm against the enemy that poured out of the towers that made the wall. Some were overborne and foundered beneath the onslaught; others, though, managed to join up with each other for a time, and so lasted longer, especially if they found some choke point—of which there were many thanks to the ruin the enemy had wreaked—to stand upon.  
  
Yet it was at the gates that the fighting was fiercest, for there the greatest number of men remained, and there both Faramir and Imrahil had gone to make their stand, with all those of their companies that remained them. There, men held the tide of darkness at bay still, and the witch-fire of the enemy they turned to their advantage, sending arrows fired by it into the siege towers to burn, and shot from the smoldering rubble as well was flung outward from the walls. The Swan knights and men-at-arms of the City fell upon those who did reach the wall with a fierceness that took their foes aback, and so kept the archers for the most part clear of battle, save to slay the wounded who staggered through the lines of defenders.  
  
Valor, however, would not hold the City, for it cannot make men materialize out of nothing or bring the dead back to life, nor could it resist the last strike. It had come to their attention in the late hours of the night, for torches burned to light its way to the gates: a great battering ram, so huge it needed teams of beasts to draw it and trolls to wield it. All through the night it had crept toward the gate, despite all efforts of the defenders to upset it. Stone had failed, and fire also. Now, with the dawn, it drew nigh to the gates, and the archers shot at the beasts. But their eyes were covered, blinding them to the carnage and protecting them also from the arrows of the defenders, and their muzzles were capped in a harness that also spared them any hurt from the war darts, and though many an arrow stuck in their tough hides, the beasts seemed not to feel it.  
  
Then over the defenders there fell a sickening dread, for before all strode a tall, dark form, and as he raised his pale sword high, it burst into flame, it seemed, and a terror flowed forth from him so thick that all men sank into a dumbstruck stillness. The Lord of the Nazgûl had come forth at last, and he leveled his blade at the gates. In response, the great hammer swung back, and then was loosed. Stone shook, but the steel held. Once more, the hammer was pulled back, and once more it struck, and still the gates held. On the third time, though, the Witch-king cried out, and the air itself seemed to ripple, and this time, the gates burst asunder—they shattered, and all those upon the wall, friend and foe alike, cried out, as they were thrown down by the shock.  
  
Not for long, though, did men lie there, for with the destruction of the gates, it was as if the spell of immobility were broken. Men grabbed weapons from the ground and the assault continued with renewed ferocity as enemies swarmed the wall, and through the breach. Gondor's companies struggled against the tide—struggled, and broke.  
  
For then came the Lord of the Nazgûl, and he passed through the ruined gates, bringing madness in his wake. Men cried out and cast down their weapons, and even Mordor's own creatures sank to the earth, prostrating themselves. Thus it was that the last of Gondor's soldiers, finding their foes suddenly melting away before them, found themselves finally confronted by the face of their enemy... a face that had no form, as the Nazgûl cast his hood back to show the emptiness within. Then at last even the most stout-hearted of Gondor's men retreated, and they could not raise their eyes to look upon their foe. Save one.  
  
Legolas, who watched upon the walls, cried out in dismay, for the one who remained, swaying a little, with weariness or perhaps under the spell of horror, wore the winged helm of Gondor's Captain. The servants of the towers, white and dark, stood stock still for a moment, as if considering each other. Faramir seemed dazed; his sword was notched and dull with blood not his own, and his shield dented, but he held it still, and as the elf stared, the Captain shook his head in denial— _Not this, not this,_ that gesture seemed to say.  
  
"Faramir!" Imrahil's anguished cry rang out, then, but it was too late. The Nazgûl struck; Faramir brought his shield up to meet the blow, then—incredibly—moved in _toward_ his enemy...  
  
An arrow sang out from the walls, and the Witch-king cried out in a terrible voice. Legolas cursed, hastily nocking another, though it was more habit than aught else that moved the elf, for clearly arrows little troubled the Witch-king: Legolas' had dissolved in a smoking ruin the moment it had lodged in the enemy's unseen flesh.  
  
Rather, it was the horns that echoed from the fields that disturbed the wraith-lord: not the harsh blast of Mordor's clarion calls, but the full sound of northern horns. "Rohan," Imrahil breathed, and Legolas spared a glance over his shoulder, though he could see nothing.  
  
Below, the Lord of the Nazgûl stood listening, and for one moment, he hesitated. Then with another cry, this time of wrath, he turned and vanished from the gates, leaving behind him a very pale Faramir, who looked after him a moment ere he looked down at himself in some surprise, as shield and sword-hilt slipped from his hands. Touching the rent in his armor from which blood now flowed all too freely, he sank to the earth and lay still.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
_That was a mighty shot in the dark, my friend_ —"The Great River," FoTR, 378.  
  
 _Do not, my lord, for there is nothing in this to thank_ , etc.—riffing on Faramir, "The Window on the West," TTT, 368.  
  
A lot of the last couple of pages is obviously just a retelling, in a somewhat different form, of "The Siege of Gondor" in RoTK. If I could have pulled it off, I would have relegated it to the Song, but since that wasn't an option, I apologize for any boring repetition you may have suffered. The next couple of chapters deserve a similar apology.


	38. The King's Banner

Merry woke to the smell of pine, and a hand over his mouth. Without thinking, he reached for his sword, only to find his wrist encircled in a firm grip.  
  
"Hush," murmured a voice, and the sound of it brought memory back. He was in Éomer's _éored_ , riding east toward Minas Tirith, and he was not supposed to be here. _Not so far as Éomer or Théoden know,_ he thought. His fellow conspirator and saddle companion, feeling him relax, released him just as another figure approached, and settled beside them. "Edrig," Greta said, speaking to the other, "any word about the orcs?"  
  
"They are close," Edrig replied. "A mere few hours ahead of us. They will pick up our trail, no doubt of it."  
  
"Bad luck, that," Greta sighed.  
  
"I hope the old Woses have no worse than drums to offer, meanwhile," Edrig said and snorted softly, though he cocked his head as the throb of strange drums sounded once more. Merry, too, listened anxiously. They had sent scouts ahead of them on the road, only to have them return with news of a rampaging company of orcs nearing the beacon hill of Eilenach. Since it had not been a large company, Théoden had sent Elfhelm's _éored_ on ahead to clear them away, and also to send out more out-riders. By the time the main host had arrived and taken shelter in the eaves of the Druadan forest, Elfhelm's company had destroyed the orcs, but the fear of still more of them had been borne out by the news of the returning scouts.  
  
As if that were not enough, the entire company had become aware of watching eyes—the drumbeats had begun soon after Elfhelm had taken to the woods to wait for the king's arrival, or so word had it, and now they sounded nearer, more urgent. Merry did not know the Woses, but the Rohirrim certainly seemed uneasy at the idea that they were watching, although orders had gone round the camp that none were to shoot into the woods unless shot at. He supposed that might be taken as a hopeful sign, for surely the king had no desire to lose any Riders when all were needed on the road to Minas Tirith; that ought to mean that there was little risk of being shot at by these Woses, yet still, Merry worried.  
  
As did they all, in fact, but Merry alone was bound to bite his tongue and say nothing. They had agreed on that, he and Greta, before they left Dunharrow.  
  
"The captain wants you kept secret and out of the way, so say nothing. You will ride behind me, under my cloak, so none can see you," Greta had said. "And when we pause, you will stay with me."  
  
"But what about everyone else? Won't someone notice?" Merry had asked.  
  
"Leave that to me," Greta had replied.  
  
So Merry had, and it had soon become apparent that his introduction of Merry to his friends had not been wholly without purpose. For they rode all together, one to either side of Greta, and two before, two behind; whenever the _éored_ stopped, Greta would thrust a hand behind his back for Merry to grasp, and then lower Merry down as far as he could before letting him drop, then dismount himself. Only then would the others descend from their perches, and they would move then to make a little camp within the camp. No one spoke to Merry, yet they all worked to conceal him, to bring him food and drink, and they piled their saddlebags so that Merry could sit behind them, unseen. He did not know what Greta had told them, but he suspected it had not taken much to convince them to play along—after all, they had pitied him readily enough when they had thought him denied the chance to ride to war.  
  
Even better, whenever news went about the camp that Greta thought Merry should hear, he made sure to talk about it with one of his friends in front of him. Eastfold border-lads all, they knew their Westron better than most, for which Merry was grateful. It had been a gloomy, stifling four days, with little to look at other than Greta's armored back amid the heavy folds of his cloak that blinded Merry to all else and muffled his hearing. It was good to have some news, some notion of what had happened in the world outside his green cocoon. It was nearly the only comfort he had: his rear was sore, and he was weary, and fearful, and wished he dared say a word, even if only, "Thank you," to his unexpected allies. With words forbidden him, he tried to convey his gratitude by smiling when he could, and he thought they understood. Otherwise, he worried much, fretting about Pippin, hoping that Aragorn was right indeed to dare the Paths, longing to see them both again and assure himself they were all right.  
  
 _But perhaps they have less to fear than I do,_ he thought, as the drums ceased suddenly. No one had feared that orcs might be waiting for the Grey Company on the Paths of the Dead. _If the orcs find us, we shall have to fight, and that would mean delay._ No one was happy about that idea, and word had it the company coming on was large indeed. Possibly too large for the Rohirrim to break past it, which ruled out any effort to simply spearhead their way through their ranks and ride for Minas Tirith.  
  
 _What shall we do?_ He longed to ask Greta, or Edrig, or any of the others in their little band of conspirators, to see if they had any idea, but he could not. _And why should they know anyway? They are only lads themselves, not captains._ The only thing that was absolutely evident to him was that if there were enough orcs upon the road that even the thousands of Riders could not manage them without a pitched and bloody battle, then Minas Tirith was in serious trouble. _And Legolas with it!_  
  
"I shall return," Greta said, suddenly, and Edrig looked up questioningly at him in the gloom.  
  
"Whither do you go?"  
  
"Trust me," Greta replied, to which Edrig only sighed and waggled a hand. 'Be gone and have done with it,' that gesture said, and Greta, with a nod for Merry, rose and disappeared south, towards the slopes, where several lantern lights were passing.  
  
Edrig, meanwhile, crawled over to his pack and rummaged about in it before coming up with a smaller sack. This he brought back with him and dropped on the ground at Merry's side. Seating himself hard by, he opened it, reached within, and withdrew a bit of bread. This he broke, and then placed half of it back into the sack. Edrig began tearing small mouthfuls off of his part of the loaf and chewing them thoughtfully. A moment later, he smoothly tipped the sack's mouth towards Merry, clear invitation to help himself. Merry wasted no time taking him up on that offer. Although he had some food in his own pack, it was hardly enough to satisfy a hobbit's appetite.  
  
As he ate, he watched Riders passing in the gloom beneath the pines: men moving from one group of friends to another, or from human company to equine and back again. The horses, for their part, stood in clusters, heads down and grazing, their tails swishing, stamping occasionally. After a time, two other lads—Wulfgar and Oeric—joined them, greeting Edrig ere they fell to talking quietly amongst themselves, mercifully in the Common Tongue so that at least Merry could listen.  
  
"Were you ever sent to Mundburg?"  
  
"Nay, only so far as Halifirien, to the courier post there."  
  
"What for?"  
  
"To bring a message for the post-master from the Third Marshal. 'Twas during the orc-raids for black horses last year."  
  
"You heard the news out of Lord Elfhelm's company, about the orcs and the beacon guard here?"  
  
"Eh, who has not? But what good speaking of it?"  
  
"None, I guess."  
  
They fell silent, leaving Merry to his restless ponderings of the evidently ill fate of the beacon guard. Memories of Uglúk made it all too easy to imagine horrors, and he set his bread aside, appetite suddenly quenched. In the woods, the drums were sounding again, and he drew his knees up to his chest, clasping his arms about them; then he lowered his head onto them and closed his eyes, listening to the beat.  
  
So it was that he heard Greta before he saw him: swift footsteps sounded, and he glanced up just as the young man came to a breathless halt among them, crouching down to beckon them all to bend closer.  
  
"Where have you been?" Wulfgar asked.  
  
"The king's council, where else?" Greta replied, and his teeth showed white as he grinned at his companions' dumbfounded murmurings.  
  
"What do you mean, the king's council? How?" Oeric hissed.  
  
"I followed the lights, of course. How else are we to know anything?" Greta demanded, and Merry shook his head. _No wonder he and Éothain get on like they do!_ he thought, though in fact, he found himself rather admiring the young Rider. _Born conspirator, clearly!_  
  
"Captain'll have your hide," Oeric said, and shook his head, but Edrig waved him to silence.  
  
"So what did you hear?"  
  
"Strange allies. The Woses have offered to guide us on an old stonewain path, around the orcs, and right to the gates of Mundburg," Greta replied.  
  
"Why would they do that?" Wulfgar asked, with a suspicious look at the woods.  
  
"From what I heard, they do not care for the orcs or their master any more than we do. A strange people, I tell you, but their chieftain seemed true enough. True enough for Théoden King and the Marshals, at least, and so we shall move soon—this very day."  
  
"Night, do you not mean?"  
  
"Nay, day," Greta replied. "The Wose chieftain seems sure of it."  
  
"But will it matter much?" Edrig asked. "The orcs are close—they cannot miss us. This secret path seems likely to do us no good if we hope to get out without a fight."  
  
"Well, that is why—"  
  
But at that moment, he fell silent, for voices were calling out in the gloom: officers, calling men to readiness, and a figure loomed over them suddenly. Merry blinked to see Éothain there, his helm tucked under one arm as he looked out over the Riders.  
  
"Men of the Eastfold, hear me!" he called. "We make for Mundburg within the hour, and we go by narrow paths. Form a line, single file, and keep your water skins at hand, for we may need to walk the horses for a time. We do not stop until we have all passed the road, and then we ride as swift and straight as we can for the City."  
  
As men stood and began readying themselves, Éothain looked down at the group of young men at his feet, and he stared straight at Merry. All about their little circle, spines stiffened and faces paled. But then, nudging a saddlebag with his toe, Éothain said sharply, "Whatever it is you lot have in here, get rid of it. You will not be needing the extra blankets where we are going." His gaze drifted to Greta, who managed an "Aye, captain," ere he gave Merry one last meaningful look, and a nod, and moved on.  
  
Edrig, Oeric, and Wulfgar were agape, and Greta was wiping his brow, relieved, apparently, that his latest adventure remained unknown to his captain. "He knows about—!" Wulfgar said hoarsely, and gestured to Merry.  
  
"Aye, he does. So, since he is so liberal with his advice on how to handle matters," Greta replied, and reached for his saddlebags, "let us not ignore it!"  
  
A little while later, Merry squirmed uncomfortably, and peeked out from beneath the flap of his new seat within one of Greta's saddlebags. Wulfgar, Edrig, and Oeric had divided up his belongings and stuffed as much as they could into their own bags, but some had had to be left behind, much to Merry's chagrin. But it had been necessary. In so long a line, without the concealment of companions, it would have been well nigh impossible to hide him if ever Greta had had to dismount.  
  
From his present perch, his view was confined to a sliver, from which he could see only the trees that fell away behind them and the dim shape of the next Rider—Edrig, he thought. With a grunt, he clutched his sword in his hands, for they had decided it would be less uncomfortable if he did not wear it, and struggled to keep his mind off the cramped quarters. _All this to follow Legolas,_ he thought, nevertheless. _And to see Pippin again, and Strider, and keep my word to Éowyn._ He wondered how she was, whether it truly eased her mind to think her brother watched over by him. On the one hand, clearly a warrior such as Éomer would need no assistance from him; on the other, though, there was no question of refusing to do exactly as Éowyn had asked of him, even if he doubted he would be of much help.  
  
 _I told her I would do for her as for any friend,_ he thought, and sighed. In truth, he could be glad—indeed, was glad—she had held him to that, that she had taken him at his word to do a friend's duty. _Strider could learn a thing or two about that, I think!_ Though to be fair, it seemed he had learned enough from Pippin to take Pippin with him. Still, it had been nice not to have to fight Éowyn so hard for it... _Even if now I almost wish she had refused me,_ he thought, futilely squirming about once more, trying to find some more comfortable position. _What I'd not give to_ be _a bag, for they at least don't get cricks in their backs!_ Something—a knee or a foot—jostled the bag: Greta warning him to keep still, and so Merry ceased his shifting.  
  
With a sigh, he closed his eyes once more, braced his forehead against the cool of the crosshilts, and endeavored to nap.  
  
  
Some time later, the flap opened, and Merry, startled, looked up to find Greta staring back. "Back aboard," he murmured, and lifted Merry free of the sack, setting him once more upon his horse's back. Merry glanced around to find Wulfgar and Oeric to either side, and a glance over his shoulder showed Edrig behind him still. Other Riders were beyond him, but it seemed the company had abandoned the long files and was forming up again.  
  
"We have passed down the slopes and through the valley beyond, upon the Stonewain road," Greta murmured as he quickly checked his gear and gave the cinch a tug. "Word has come back that we must reorder ourselves, now that we are through, but also to cover Elfhelm's men."  
  
"Elfhelm's men?" Merry whispered.  
  
"Aye, the king ordered a number of them to remain behind, hidden in the woods and brush just where the path enters the valley, for there it is very narrow. They were to trap the orcs there and stop them up. But that means Elfhelm rides light, and the king may wish to send some of us to his _éored._ "  
  
"But I have to stay with Éomer," Merry protested. "I promised Lady Éowyn I would stay with him!"  
  
"Do not worry, the captain knows that, I am sure. He will keep us nearby. Now, hush!" With that, Greta mounted, and cast his cloak once more over Merry, who busied himself with buckling his sword-belt back on.  
  
Some time they sat, waiting for the rest of the Riders to file up out of the trough, and orders did indeed come back for the ranks to reorder themselves, though not as Greta had supposed. In the end, the king broke Éomer's _éored_ off from his own host to be its own command, and brought Elfhelm's reduced company under his own banner. As men and horses shuffled ranks, scouts who had been sent out hours earlier by the lead companies returned, bearing word of a clear road.  
  
"And of a clear wall, too, thankfully," Wulfgar muttered. It seemed that the siege had drawn most of the orcs off the Rammas Echor, and that those who remained were too enchanted with their efforts to destroy it to pay overmuch attention to the approaches.  
  
"Greta, what are you doing?" Edrig asked suddenly, and despite the muffling of the cloak, Merry could hear the sharp confusion in his voice.  
  
"I want a closer look, that is all," Greta replied, urging his horse forward. _A closer look at what?_ Merry wondered, and despite the risk, he pushed the cloak aside just a bit, so he could see if he leaned a bit.  
  
Mostly, he saw the backs of Riders, but as Greta threaded his way through them, Merry realized they were moving steadily toward the front of the formation, and the group of Riders surrounding Éomer, whose distinctive white horsetail stood out even at a distance. "Greta," he whispered, "whe—?"  
  
But Greta simply tugged his cloak back into place, effectively cutting Merry off. And it did not take long for him to realize why, as a familiar voice sounded close at hand. "Greta, what are you doing here?" Éothain said, his tone pitched low, though Merry could hear him well enough despite the cloak.  
  
"I was told to stay close to the Third Marshal, Captain," Greta replied quietly. Éothain made a frustrated noise.  
  
"You were close enough before," he growled. But then: "Guthláf is moving—the signal ought to come any moment now. Very well, stay here, but have the sense to keep your head down, both of you!" This last command was delivered in a hissing undertone, ere Éothain apparently urged his mount off to take up his own position within Éomer's personal guard.  
  
Soon, they were moving again in the deep darkness, for the day had gone down while they walked in the Stonewain Valley, and waited for all their company to pass it. Now they slowly crept down the road, 'til some word or signal came that caused the Riders to pick up their pace, urging their horses on more swiftly. All about, Merry could hear the dull rumble of their passing, and the scent of bruised grass wafted up to him.  
  
It was several hours later before they halted again, and to Merry's surprise, Greta shifted, standing in his stirrups to pull his cloak from off of Merry, ere he sat back down upon it. "The walls are nigh," the young man said, and Merry felt a hand pat his leg. "Look!"  
  
Merry looked, and beheld a great, towering silhouette in the dimness: walls they were, or had been, for there were great gaps in them, and fire burned in the darkness, turning the air a dull, wavering red beyond them. It was as if the very heavens were sick, and when the drums sounded from the field, Merry felt its vibration as a dreadful pulse within him. All about, the Rohirrim gathered in hushed ranks. They were drawn up, it seemed in three companies: far away to the left was the banner of the Westfold, and but a few ranks forward of Merry and Greta, the boar and swords of the Eastfold; between them both and a little ahead fluttered the white horse of the king's household. Orders began being passed through the ranks: bear right as you pass the walls and drive for the gates.  
  
"What should I do?" Merry asked, feeling foolish for not having asked before, but in the face of the reality of the coming assault, doubt reared its head on the cresting tide of fear.  
  
"Draw your sword, but hold fast to me," Greta replied, his voice sounding a little tight as he settled his shield firmly in place and gripped his spear. "Just keep your seat until we slow somewhat, and if you must strike, slash, do not stab, or you may have your weapon ripped from your hand."  
  
Merry only nodded at that, and on impulse, thrust his left arm up through Greta's belt, then grabbed a handful of tunic. _I suppose this is as ready as I can be,_ he thought, swallowing hard around the queasy lump in his stomach. Just then, Théoden cried out. Staves he spoke, though Merry understood them not, but his voice carried clear and defiant in the heavy air, and then the horns blew, echoing off Mindolluin. Again they sounded, and then with a groan and rumble, the Rohirrim began to move, the horses picking up speed swiftly, as a few scattered arrows came down from the orcs who had been assigned to watch the wall. But though a few struck, the Rohirrim heeded them not at all, and with a burst of speed, they broke upon the fields like a storm crest in the dry season, overwhelming their foes, crushing them beneath the massed charge.  
  
Hoofs thundered on the turf as the lines spread out, and Merry, clinging for dear life, could see the king's banner flying high and proud before all, as Théoden's company outstripped all others. He was not sure who started the song, but ere long, it seemed all men were singing it. Merry could catch only snatches of it above the roar and clash of battle, and what he could hear, he did not grasp, but it seemed a terrible song indeed to go so well with the work of battle. Greta stabbed downward with his spear, pinioning an orc, as he caroled at the top of his lungs, and Merry felt more than saw another go down to his horse's steel-shod hoofs. Still, they drove on, and the hobbit cried out as more arrows came raining down. Horses screamed, and he saw, in a blur of movement, a rider go streaking by, an arrow protruding from his chest. Greta had his sword out now, and was slashing at whatever drew near. Merry even managed one quick cut, when he caught sight of something small and dark in the corner of his eye. The orc fell back, clutching his face, and Merry lost sight of him, his only thought now that he had to stay with Greta, had to stay with Greta, had to keep Greta alive to stay alive himself...  
  
And then the world heaved and went sideways. So it seemed to Merry, at least, and he cried out in pain as he slipped away from Greta, the belt tearing at his flesh ere he was thrown free. For a moment, he lay stunned upon the ground, watching as men and horses and darts flailed and fell and streaked overhead, and something was screaming—screaming fit to tear Merry's heart in two, he felt, or split his head open. Somebody nearby was cursing and weeping, and men seemed to be shouting in terror.  
  
To one watching from above, perhaps from the walls of the City, what had happened was clear enough: when the horns of the Rohirrim had sounded, the Witch-king had abandoned the gates, and gone in wrath to his great, winged mount and taken to the air. Although the Rohirrim had swept through the field, cutting through the ranks of orcs like a knife, they had still met resistance: Théoden's company had come upon Haradric cavalry—perhaps the very same that had hunted Faramir's men back to the gates—and there had been matched. As the lead companies collided, the standard of Rohan had faltered, and then fallen. Its bearer, Guthláf, had taken a spear to the side, ere one of the Haradric champions had hewn his head from his shoulders.  
  
Thus the Witch-king, seeing the white horse nowhere upon the field as he had circled above, had fixed his deadly gaze upon another: upon the boar and swords that rode nearest the walls, and might even win through to aid the defenders of the City. And so he had fallen upon them, descending from on high in a rage, and sending man and beast into a panic. The line broke, as horses bore their Riders away, heedless of their wishes, while others directly in the path of the Nazgûl were overborne and fell to the earth in their desperate efforts to escape, or else reared and bucked, throwing their masters to the ground.  
  
Now, Merry rolled painfully onto his stomach, surprised to find he still clutched his sword and that he had not killed himself with it by sheer accident in the fall. _Where is Greta? And Éomer?_ he wondered, remembering his charge. Looking up, he was in time to see the fell-beast toss a man aside as if he were a mere puppet, and the hobbit flinched in horror. But neither the beast nor its master had eyes for him, as the creature snapped at the unhorsed Riders, and Merry nearly threw up as its teeth and clawed wings found marks in men too stunned or terrified to flee or fight.  
  
But in the midst of the carnage, one fallen soldier struck back at last: as the sinuous neck curved, then lashed outward, one Rider rolled swiftly to the side, then back, bringing his sword down upon its neck with a cry. The beast shrieked and staggered, swaying, and the Rider came to his feet: Éomer son of Éomund had lost his shield, but he still held his sword. But ere he could move, almost, the Witch-king wailed, his fell voice piercing, and Merry cried aloud in pain as he dropped his weapon to clap his hands over his ears. Éomer also blanched, one hand coming up as if to ward away the very sound; in that moment, the beast, perhaps obeying his master's will, lunged forward in a last effort, and one thick, clawed wingtip swept forward, hooking about the sword, while simultaneously knocking the Third Marshal to the ground.  
  
Ignoring the convulsions of his dying mount, the Lord of the Nazgûl leapt down, and his sword was drawn and bloody as he stalked toward Éomer, who had just gotten to his knees, gasping and winded and weaponless now.  
  
"My lord!" a new voice shouted, cracking with the strain, and something flashed bright in the air. Merry, despite his terror, jerked his head up, for he knew that voice by now. Greta was on his knees some ways away, his face dead white with fear. His hands were empty: he had thrown his sword, seeing his lord's peril, and it lay now close at hand. Éomer lunged for it, and somehow, managed to get it up to block the Witch-king's attack—not for long, not at such disadvantage. But he was not yet abandoned.  
  
"No, Greta, don't!" Merry shouted. Or tried to—it came out a squeak of horror as Greta, moved by Merry knew not what madness or courage, grabbed a spear from the ground, lurched to his feet, and charged forward. If he had had any plan or idea beyond that, it was not apparent, but the end was predictable. The Witch-king turned on him, and moving now swift as a snake, struck with a dagger in his left hand. Wood shattered, blood sprayed, and Greta went down without a word, but it was time enough for Éomer to gain his feet and some distance at least. Then the Witch-king would brook no further delay, but he swept forward, intent upon his prey. The air rang as steel struck and scraped against steel.  
  
For his part, though, Merry was nearly oblivious to that battle. He felt numb inside as he crawled forward to where Greta lay, bleeding. The knife had caught him in the face, tearing into one cheek, and through an eye to slice into the bridge of his nose. The hobbit reached out and patted his face gently with a trembling hand, and felt his friend's flesh clammy and chill. Horrified, he shrank back, and looked up to see Éomer stagger from the force of a blocked blow, for though the Third Marshal was a doughty fighter, against the terror of a Nazgûl's wrath, few can stand for very long: agony of a sort unknown to bodies was in his face as he desperately ducked another blow, reeling. Merry saw the Nazgûl lash out once more then, and the back of a mailed fist smashed into the Third Marshal's jaw. Éomer went down, but curiously, the Witch-king did not move to finish off his enemy. Perhaps he mocked him, or perhaps it pleased his fancy to toy with his prey, to drag death out instead of dealing it swiftly—who could say? But in that moment, a wrath kindled suddenly in Merry's heart, and outrage gave him courage, or else overpowered all else.  
  
 _Not like this,_ the thought blazed in his mind. _It cannot go like this!_ Clutching his own sword, he raised his eyes to the black-cloaked shape of his foe, then hastily lowered them. Not even righteous anger could bear the sight of the Lord of the Nazgûl unveiled in his power, but it lent strength to legs made weak with terror: Merry forced himself to his feet, forced himself to walk, one unsteady step at a time, toward his foe. _For you promised her,_ continued a voice in his head; _You promised to have an eye on him for her!_ He had no idea what he would do, poor warrior that he was, but it scarcely mattered; all that was in his head now was that Éowyn's brother must not go to lie with Greta.  
  
And all the while that Merry tottered and stumbled forward, the Witch-king stood looming over his fallen enemy, and all his malice seemed bent upon the poor Rider who, groaning, managed to make it to all fours, though only barely. Almost, Éomer lay back down, his head drooping under the menace of his foe's unseen eyes. A moment he remained there, panting, and then in a last effort, he lunged to his feet, sword in both hands, and with a shouted oath that could not but be a prayer as well, struck, aiming to pierce his enemy's mail and stab through to the heart.  
  
It was then the Witch-king moved. Not to evade the blow: rather, he simply ignored it, and as that deadly blade stabbed downward, Éomer's sword shattered in a glitter of shards. The Third Marshal cried out, and then again, as the Nazgûl pulled his sword free, but the Witch-king had not long to gloat. For in that moment, Merry's voice sounded shrilly: "The Shire!" And this time, it was the Witch-king who screamed, and in pain, as Merry thrust his Barrow-blade into the vulnerable spot just behind his knee. The spells that the smiths of old had laid upon that blade did their work then, cleaving the undead flesh and with it, the spell that had bound that flesh to the will of the Witch-king.  
  
Still, even a wounded Nazgûl is a foe to be reckoned with, and Merry gasped as a terrible, stabbing pain blossomed, then died with surprising suddenness. A cold, tingling numbness suffused his limbs, spreading inward especially from his sword-arm, and without quite knowing how, he found himself upon the ground, on his back. His head lolled to one side, and he could see Éomer lying nearby, but his vision was going white—or was it? He squinted, and it seemed to him there was a light— _The sun?_ —that shone down upon him, though it wavered, as if the air were disturbed somehow, or as if it shone through a fog. An immense weariness settled upon him, then, yet nevertheless, he smiled, for even as he watched, he saw men in strange colors and costume come sweeping forward, their spears aglitter in the new light, and one at their head wore a crown as he bore down upon the Witch-king, his sword raised.  
  
Thus it was that the King of the Dead at last avenged his honor, fulfilling the prophecy, uttered long ago, that to the hand of no living man should the Lord of the Nazgûl fall.  
  
But Merry, who knew nothing of prophecies, sighed softly, as a strange sound, as of music, filled his ears, bearing with it to his mind an image, as of trees and stars, though he knew not why. _Later I shall know,_ he thought; _But now, I am weary... I should so like to rest..._  
  
So he did not see the black sails, nor hear the cry that went up all around the field and in the City:  
  
 _"Elendil to Gondor! The Tree and Crown return!"_


	39. The Turning of the Tide

Foam surged against the ship's prow, and swirling fell away. Pippin stood on his toes, leaning on the railing, and watched it pass. The wind was blowing, and he could hear the flap of banners, feel it in his hair, and as the ship sped onward, his heart sped with it. He could feel it beating swiftly, and bit his lip. He had come to the railings because he had found it oddly soothing to watch the water rush by in the past three days. Far more so than watching the land sweep by him in a blur from the back of a horse, and he _still_ ached from the strain of that ride. Everyone did, he thought—or at least, _had_ , for a time, and fortunately the Rangers were generous in sharing the unguent they used to deal with the saddle sores. At least they had had time to recover a little from that journey since Pelargir.  
  
 _That_ had been a strange and awful day. After their long ride, with only the briefest of pauses at Linhir to assist Lord Angbor and bid him follow after them, they had come at last to Pelargir, and that City they had found fallen to the Corsairs. But as at Linhir upon Gilrain, there were no men who would stand against the Dead, neither friend nor foe. In the wake of the Dead they had walked, and found Pelargir's people prostrated with fear as well as their captors. It had been a long night, and the strangest 'battle' any had ever seen or heard tell of, requiring time more than ought else: time, to gather and soothe Pelargir's people once the Dead had passed their homes, so that the Haradrim also left trembling in their wake could be guarded, 'til at last all were accounted for: those who had run, those who had slain themselves in their terror, and those who were wounded in their efforts to escape the Dead. Nor had it been so easy to walk behind the Dead, for though their fear was greater when they faced a man, still, Pippin had been shaky all the way down to the depths of the city where the Haradrim had at last been brought to bay.  
  
Nevertheless, none had complained of it, for when had thirty-three men ever taken a city with so little effort? Certainly it had gained them needed help: Pelargir's lord, once freed from his cell, had knelt to Aragorn without hesitation when he had seen the Dead, and now he and his knights and levies sailed with them to Minas Tirith, manning not only the Corsair's ships, but those of Pelargir's fleet that had survived the assault. That had been three days ago, and Pippin had been grateful for the peaceful journey since then, for if Minas Tirith did not promise to be anywhere near so easily taken, at least none would go to that battle unrested.  
  
 _Unless you count lack of sleep,_ Pippin thought, and sighed. For he had been restless the past two nights, unable to sleep for more than an hour or so at a time, and if it were not that Aragorn had set the 'dawn' call early, it would have been a third night of fitful slumber. He supposed that in fact it had been; it was just that being awake and ready so early meant it was a shorter night than usual.  
  
Unfortunately, that simply brought his mind back to matters he had been trying not to think about, namely the reason for the early call. It was not simply the lingering fear of the Dead, who followed upon the river, that troubled him. By all accounts, they would reach Minas Tirith today, thanks to the new wind that had sprung up, and so men were arming themselves, getting something to eat, and generally going over their gear, ensuring it was all properly sharpened, fastened, and oiled. Aragorn and Lord Borald of Pelargir, who had joined Aragorn on the flagship, were in the captain's cabin, going over strategy, or Pippin might have sought him out. _Now I miss Merry most!_ he thought, missing his cousin's comforting chatter. All the other men on board were quiet, and though they sat or stood together in small groups, they all of them had the look of men who had seen much of war, and who had long since mastered the fears and anxieties that plagued one new to the ranks.  
  
He was wishing he had a few pebbles he might occupy himself with by dropping them over the side, or trying to skip them off a foam-crest to strike the hull, when the deck creaked and a hand touched his shoulder. Startled, Pippin looked up to find Halbarad standing there. "Oh," Pippin said. "Good morning."  
  
"Good morrow," Halbarad returned, gravely polite. "May I join you?"  
  
"Of course," the hobbit replied. Nodding his thanks, Halbarad carefully laid the standard—furled upon its spear still—upon the deck and eased himself down to sit with his back to the railing. Reaching into his scrip, he brought out his pipe and a small bag of pipeweed, and began tamping some of the leaf into the bowl. Raising a brow at Pippin, he asked:  
  
"Would you care for some?"  
  
"Please," Pippin replied, eager for a little distraction, but pleased moreover by the offer. Although Pippin had grown accustomed to Halbarad's presence since Dunharrow, since he rode ever with him or with Aragorn, he was nonetheless somewhat surprised. Rangers, he had discovered, were more dour as a group than alone, and not much for talk or comfort—not as hobbits understood such things, at least, although Pippin thought the Grey Company had warmed to him somewhat, and particularly Halbarad, who seemed to sense his concern for Aragorn and approve of it. _Or else he knows Strider is worried about me,_ he thought, which often times seemed a far more likely reason for the Ranger-lieutenant's quiet interest in him.  
  
There was silence for a time as pipeweed and matches were passed back and forth, and the first taste of smoke savored. But eventually, Pippin glanced aside at his companion, and thinking of Aragorn and their mutual concern, he felt anxiety merge with unhappy suspicions. _Why has he come here this morning?_ he wondered. And after a moment, he asked hesitantly, "Is everything all right?"  
  
"What do you mean?" Halbarad asked.  
  
"I mean, I just thought you would want to be with Str—Aragorn and Lord Borald. You know," Pippin gestured vaguely, "helping plan things."  
  
Halbarad grunted, but he did not seem offended, and indeed, his next words reassured Pippin. "We have spoken already, but I have no knowledge of Minas Tirith, nor any great experience in leading so many as this. Lord Borald shall serve Aragorn better than I in such matters. Besides, I have my own duties, just as we all do."  
  
"I suppose so," Pippin replied, and stared at his toes.  
  
"You _suppose_ so?" Halbarad repeated, raising a brow.  
  
"Well, of course we do. I'm just..." he paused, groping for words.  
  
"Frightened?" Halbarad suggested, though not unkindly.  
  
"I think I've been scared since September. Not to say that I'm not now, but it's more than that." Halbarad made a polite noise of encouragement, and Pippin frowned, plucking at a strand of curly hair that hung down in his face. "I don't know. I asked to be here—Aragorn didn't want to take me along, and I didn't truly need him to take me, I guess. I could've gone with Merry, but I wouldn't let it go without arguing. Now I am here, and I have this horrible feeling... as if I don't belong here, or as if I won't be able—" He broke off, flustered and frustrated, and gave Halbarad an anxious, pleading look. "Do you know what I mean?"  
  
Halbarad seemed to consider his words a moment. Then: "No," he replied, and shrewd grey eyes fixed upon him. "Say what you fear, then I can say whether I know it."  
  
Why was it so hard to say things lately? Pippin wondered. The words were there, but they stuck in his throat, and he could feel Halbarad's eyes upon him, pressing him silently, 'til it all came out in a rush: "I'm afraid I've bitten off more than I can chew." He swallowed hard. "I'm not a warrior, Halbarad, that's why I'm supposed to be guarding the healers. Everyone can see I don't belong here. But I've got to be; I promised I would, but I'm afraid I won't be any good at all." So he spoke, and ducked his head, jamming the pipestem between his teeth so he would have something to bite other than his tongue or lip.  
  
To his surprise, Halbarad only chuckled softly, but without scorn or pity. "Well," he said, "that makes two of us."  
  
"I beg your pardon?" Sheer surprise made Pippin look up again at his companion of chance the past few days, who had never given Pippin the impression of either fear or anything less than a masterful competence in the business of war. He gestured to the mail and sword Halbarad wore. "You've been doing this for years!"  
  
"War is not the same in all places. I have ridden with elves against orcs, 'tis true, but never broken a siege, nor been a standard-bearer. The North's battlefields are not made for such things," Halbarad told him.  
  
"Oh." He had never thought of that before, yet it made a great deal of sense. And it was comforting to think he was not alone in his fearful self-doubt. Still... "Aragorn must trust you despite that, if he wants you to be his standard-bearer. I feel as if my being with the healers is only because he couldn't keep me on the ship otherwise, but didn't want me in the way."  
  
"You are no doubt right to think so," Halbarad replied, and Pippin blinked, surprised by this admission. The Ranger quirked a brow, and his lips curved in a wry smile. "You thought I would deny it?"  
  
"Well, I-I..." Pippin stammered, but in the end, he simply nodded.  
  
"I have been at war for many years, and though I have never sailed a ship, or broken a siege such as this, or carried a standard, I have been Aragorn's lieutenant for a long while. Were it my decision, I would do as Aragorn has done with you," Halbarad said, cocking his head to look Pippin full in the face. "Better you smart from the wound to your pride than die for the flattering of it, and perhaps drag others down with you."  
  
At that, Pippin flushed, for put so, at least some of his suspicions about Halbarad's presence here—that he had come to have a covert eye on the one he most mistrusted to carry out his duties—seemed awfully... foolish, or selfish. _If it were flattering my pride to put me anywhere on the field, Strider wouldn't have done it. That's good to know... I think._ Lowering his eyes, he stared at the deck for a bit, squirming uncomfortably.  
  
Finally, he snorted, and shook his head and said, "I don't know what's wrong with me, even. I never cared about such things before I left the Shire. Now I'm here, and everything is out of place, and I just... I want to do one thing right and well, but I don't see how I can. Maybe I should have stayed behind, or gone with Merry—at least we'd have been safely on board a horse!"  
  
Halbarad snorted. "I should not envy your cousin his seat," he said, which response but drew other, darker fears in and set them to gnawing at each other.  
  
"Do you really think we shall win this, Halbarad?" Pippin asked in a low, anxious voice, lifting his gaze to search the other's face. "Or do you think Strider is letting me in because he knows it won't matter? Is that why he's asking you to be a standard-bearer, and me to go with the healers instead of staying on the ship?"  
  
The Ranger-lieutenant said nothing for a time, considering Pippin through the smoke that curled up from his pipe. But eventually, he sighed and said, "I cannot say. Aragorn seems to believe it is possible, with the help of the Dead and the men of the Ethir and Pelargir. But what he believes himself, that I do not know, for he is also my captain. And a good captain does not tell his men that he believes a battle may be futile."  
  
"Then he does not seem," Pippin pressed, and paused a moment, searching for the proper word, "more grim than usual to you? More, ah, distant?"  
  
"Given the circumstances, not particularly. Pippin," Halbarad said then, "whatever Aragorn may believe, he may be right or he may be wrong. We shall learn soon enough how the battle shall go. Think of what you must do, and do not look too far ahead: that is your duty, nothing else."  
  
Pippin sighed. "I just want to know he's all right," he said softly. "I don't know your Captain Aragorn, you see; I just know Strider," he said, glancing up at Halbarad with a thoughtful frown. "But lately, I get the feeling Strider's been away more often than not." And remembering Aragorn's strange reply to his question that night by the Erech stone, he added, by way of worried conclusion, "And I don't know that he likes being Elessar very much, if that's who he is when he is a captain."  
  
"I see," Halbarad replied after a moment. And he looked away, tipping his head back to stare up at the flags on the mainmast, letting his hands dangle limply between his knees. Pippin followed his gaze whither the flag of Umbar beneath the red eye of Mordor fluttered. A trick of appearances, to play the pirate and so have the advantage of surprise—so Pippin had heard. "Being a Ranger is a lonely life very often, and a hard one. But it is one all of us know, whereas this... " Halbarad gestured to the deck that was fast becoming crowded. "Even Thorongil has not known this time and place, nor any like it."  
  
"Thorongil?" Pippin asked.  
  
"Aragorn never told you about that? Ask him later. It makes an interesting tale," Halbarad advised, with a slight smile. Then more seriously: "If he does not care much for Elessar, then well that he can be Strider with you sometimes, if he likes that part better. Take care today, therefore, for he should come to like this new name even less, were you to come to harm."  
  
"I shall try to," Pippin said, and got another not unkindly chuckle for his fervor.  
  
"Just remember to keep to your feet, and that a warrior is vulnerable where his armor does not cover him: the face, under the arm, at the neckline or under the chin—"  
  
"And above the knee and below the hem of a mail skirt or the edge of a breastplate," Pippin finished the lethal litany. Aragorn had said the same, and Boromir as well. _And Legolas, Gimli, Gandalf, Elrond's sons back in Rivendell when we were waiting on news..._ He shivered. "I don't know what's worse: knowing there are so many ways through armor, or that someone bothered to find them all!"  
  
At that, Halbarad's hand closed on his shoulder, squeezing firmly, and he looked up to see the other gazing down with entirely too much sympathy in his eyes. But he said nothing, save: "The time draws near. We should rejoin our companies."  
  
So saying, he rose, emptied his pipe over the side, and then returned it to his scrip. Pippin followed suit, and Halbarad stooped swiftly, then hefted the standard and inspected it briefly to make sure it was still properly kept, ere he turned his eyes to the bow of the ship, where, dimly, towers could be seen awash in a red light.  
  
"It has been a long road," he murmured, then turned to Pippin once more. Grave grey eyes regarded him intently. "Are you ready?" he asked quietly.  
  
 _Am I?_ Pippin wondered, briefly. "There's no help for it if I'm not," he admitted. But then he nodded, determinedly. "Yes, I am ready."  
  
"Are you well?"  
  
Which was an even harder question to answer. "I think so. Frightened, but there's not much help for that either. Is there?" Pippin asked, gazing hopefully at the Ranger.  
  
Halbarad shook his head. "Only the dead feel no fear."  
  
"Right, then. I suppose that I am as well and ready as can be," Pippin sighed.  
  
"Good. Then off with you, and I wish you good fortune, Master Took." With that, Halbarad gave him a nod, and started off toward the Rangers who were congregating now near the gangway.  
  
Pippin turned, and began to move astern, towards the archers with whom the healers would go, but then, struck by a thought, he stopped and called after the departing Ranger: "Halbarad!" The other paused, turning back to him. "You'll be careful, too?"  
  
At that, Halbarad smiled, and he made him a minute bow, ere he called back: "Never fear!" Satisfied, Pippin bowed in return, then crossed the deck to where the healers waited, checking satchels and adjusting the long daggers at their belts. One of them, an older man with a scarred face—Minharin, he had called himself when Pippin had been assigned to him—gave him a slight smile and a nod. Pippin nodded back and gripped the hilt of his sword anxiously.  
  
Just as he took his place among them, the cabin doors opened, and Aragorn and Borald emerged. The Lord of Pelargir went straight to the prow, where his knights waited, but Pippin scarcely noticed him. For all that Pippin had discerned a definite change in Aragorn's demeanor since Dunharrow, many might not have remarked it, for to look at him, he seemed unchanged. He had after all kept to his usual habit: grey cloak, mail borrowed from the Rohirrim, and of course, Andúril, but other than the sword, he had remained, so far as the eye could tell, the nondescript Ranger of somber mien.  
  
But this morn... Apparently the Dúnedain had brought more than just a horse and standard for him when they had come south from the Angle: bound to his brow was a jewel that glittered with a clear light, and the mail he wore was not of Rohan. Of older make it seemed, and black, like a dragon's scales. Andúril he wore as usual, but his cloak this morn was clasped with a green jewel in the shape of an eagle—Pippin remembered Galadriel had given him upon their departure from Lórien. And for all that Pippin had found it ever easy to look to him for guidance, this morning there could be no doubt who commanded. Heads turned, and men straightened unthinkingly as he passed.  
  
Halbarad bowed as Aragorn approached, and then clasped forearms with his liegelord, and the two of them spoke together thus quietly, while Aragorn surveyed the deck and the men standing ready there. Halbarad must have said something that caught his attention, for he glanced quickly back at his lieutenant. Pippin fancied he saw a brow raise, ere Aragorn bowed his head. But to his surprise, when he looked back up, he seemed to be laughing, and he squeezed Halbarad's arms tightly ere he released him and began a final inspection of the companies. To each commander he listened while they gave their reports, then spoke briefly in return. A nod and a salute would be exchanged, then he would move on.  
  
At length, he came to the archers, and to the junior knight of Pelargir who had been assigned to lead them. They conversed a little, ere Aragorn, who had let his gaze wander over the faces of the men, spied Pippin standing there among the healers with their red arm bands. It was just for a moment, and then he went back to attending what the other said for awhile more. But the discussion ended swiftly thereafter, and somewhat to Pippin's surprise, rather than return to the prow, and Lord Borald, Aragorn walked down the line and stopped before him.  
  
"Pippin," he said, and when Pippin did not speak immediately, but only stared, a wry look came over him. "Join me a moment," he requested, and tilted his head slightly, indicating the main mast, which was yet clear of men. Once they had retreated thither and gained some space, Aragorn knelt so they could see each other without craning their necks, and said dryly, "I do not look much the Ranger in this, I fear."  
  
"No, you don't," Pippin replied. But then he smiled a bit, and said, "But you do look like a prince—like Elessar, I imagine." A pause, then: "It becomes you, I think."  
  
Aragorn smiled slightly. "Thank you," he said, and Pippin sensed it was not simply politeness that spoke. "I would ask," Aragorn continued then, and gratitude became gravity, pure and simple, "whether you truly desired to fight in this battle, but I doubt it would serve any good purpose, or that your answer has changed. So I ask instead: do you know your part in this?"  
  
"I do." Pippin lifted his chin slightly and forced a smile that belied the queasy feeling building in the pit of his stomach. "I promise, Strider, I shall be as careful as I can, and keep the healers from harm."  
  
"Then that shall have to suffice," Aragorn sighed, but held up a hand, staying him when Pippin opened his mouth to bid him farewell for the time being. "One other thing, Pippin," he said gravely. "In Gondor, it is traditionally understood that healers and their escorts do not leave wounded behind. If the battle goes ill, then that may mean helping them to slay some who might have been saved if only—"  
  
"I know, Aragorn," Pippin interrupted, drawing himself up in an effort to seem reassuringly soldierly in so serious a matter. "I will do what is needed." Aragorn was eyeing him closely now, and Pippin lifted his chin bravely, trying to meet the other's eyes without wavering. He was in fact rather proud of himself, that he did not flinch when he finished: "And I won't need to do _that_ , because you're going to get us into Minas Tirith, and we are going to win. Aren't we?" And when Aragorn did not reply, only regarded him gravely, he added in an undertone, "Just please say, 'yes,' Strider."  
  
At that, Aragorn's expression softened—something about the eyes, as if they lost a certain opacity and let a little of feeling shine through to light his face. Laying his hands upon Pippin's shoulders then, Aragorn leaned forward and kissed his brow. "I shall see you in the City," he murmured.  
  
And that was all. Without another word, he rose and left Pippin standing there, and it occurred to Pippin in an instant that he was glad he had not been allowed to say 'farewell' after all. As he rejoined the healers, Minharin, who had gathered his two younger colleagues and a pair of esquires on guard duty into a small group, asked:  
  
"Ready, lad?"  
  
"The sooner it's over, the better," Pippin muttered.  
  
Minas Tirith was clearly visible now upon the banks before them: flame engulfed the first circle, and smoke obscured much of it, though the Citadel could still be seen, pale and desperate, above the reek. From where Pippin stood near the railing, he could see the docks and men gathered there. From the fields, they could hear a great noise: battle and destruction and orders shouted in strange tongues. In the face of it, and of the burning city, all aboard were silent with a sort of dread, though eager, anticipation. Of a sudden, Aragorn, who had taken up his place before the gangway, spoke, his voice carrying above the wind:  
  
" _Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinomë maruvan._ But not I alone: the charge of Elendil is given to all who dwell in dark times. And so I say unto you, heirs of Elendil by birth or by blood shed: from the waters we have come, and here _we_ shall abide, and make our stand upon these shores until death take us or this day is won! Here we stand, and fear no darkness, for day shall come again!"  
  
As he spoke, he drew his sword, Andúril gleaming silver-white in the dimness, and Halbarad unfurled the flag at last. Pippin gasped, for upon what had seemed a black standard at Erech glowed the silver outline of a tree and crown, and there flashed seven jewels. Sword and standard reflected each other, and as men cried out, _Aurë entuluva!_ , a great gust of wind filled their sails. Pippin shuddered, then, for he knew that breeze: the Dead had come. Mist-pale, they rushed past the ships and made for the docks, and the men there cried out in terror, fleeing the shades. Then, as the ships came at last to berth in Harlond, men flung down the gangplanks, and with a roar, they spilled onto the quays and hurled themselves into the fray. Some distance behind them came the archers, spread out in rows of two, and as they walked after the knights and men-at-arms, they shot over their heads into the ranks of the enemy that came onward.  
  
Pippin and the healers walked with them, in the gaps between the broad columns, waiting for the time when their services should be needed. Ordinarily, they would have been busy almost immediately, but the Dead gave Aragorn's companies the advantage: the fear of them had sent the enemy fleeing back into the ranks of their fellows, so that wherever they passed, men parted in waves. Thus for the first little while, the only bodies they happened upon were those of enemy soldiers wounded in their efforts to flee or by the blades of their assailants, and the archers took care of any such wounded with brutal efficiency.  
  
But it did not last forever. The shades had their orders: after Pelargir, Aragorn had taken care to choose their targets, and today, the Dead were not concerned with orcs or Men, beyond clearing the docks. For having seen how all men were affected by them, Aragorn feared to cause a panic among Gondor's defenders, or any other allies who might be upon the field, with disastrous results. Therefore, the Dead let them be but went straight for the _mumâkil_ and the beasts that drew the engines and wains, the trolls, and of course, the Nazgûl, whom the King of the Dead himself strove with and destroyed. Such creatures as men find hard to face, the Dead hunted over the field, and they stopped up the broken gates so that few would dare to approach.  
  
Once the terror had passed, therefore, Sauron's creatures remembered themselves, and they flung themselves back against their assailants, though there was much dismay and confusion now. For even as Aragorn's men had pressed forward, taking advantage of their enemies' disorderly retreat, so also had the Rohirrim, and now also the Swan knights issued forth, daring the gates and the ghosts to strike at their enemies. But still, the Dark Lord's forces were not prepared to surrender just yet, and where they did stop and stand, the fighting was fierce.  
  
Thus Pippin found a use for his sword at last, for as the healers bent over their wounded, foes more lightly injured, or wounded not at all broke through the front lines to threaten both the archers and the healers. The first such was one of the Haradrim who, more crafty than his fellows, had lain as though dead until the archers were upon him, and who had then leapt up, scimitar in hand, to ravage their lines. Two men had fallen immediately, surprised and without defense; another reeled out of the line, dropping his bow to clutch at his stomach. But ere the Southron could swing again, he had cried out, and one leg had buckled. He had sunk to the ground, pressing a hand to his hamstrung leg, and Pippin, with a cry, had driven his sword home, and flinched when bright blood spattered hot upon him. Afterward, he had stood there panting a moment, staring down at the dead man, whose eyes stared back, seeming wide with surprise.  
  
"Master Perian!" a voice had called, and Pippin had shaken himself and looked over his shoulder to see Minharin look up from examining the wounded archer's belly. "Are you hurt?"  
  
"No, I'm fine..."  
  
"Good, then eyes forward, lad! Look to those lines!"  
  
And so he had obeyed. Since that first fight, there had been others, and Pippin tried not to think too hard about any of it, just followed along and slashed at what came near, struggling with the esquires to keep Minharin and his assistants clear of any dangerous distractions. Things seemed to be going well enough for a time, but suddenly there came a cry: "Trolls!"  
  
 _Trolls?_ Pippin caught his breath, for trolls they were indeed: a whole mass of them. Whether they were immune to the fear of the Dead or else had been driven by them to this point, they came now, bellowing with rage. No cave trolls, these, either: taller, broader, and armored, these were Olog-hai, bearing whips and maces, and although the archers hastily loosed upon them, and the spearmen set themselves against them, still they came on... and with them, through the gaps they rent in the forward lines, orcs and Men of Harad or of other far countries came, making once more for the archers... and the healers. Then arrows became scarce against the trolls, as those directly in the path of the charge forsook bows after one or two more volleys and went to their swords or daggers to save themselves, and their fellows further from harm turned their arrows on the advancing press of foes.  
  
"Gondor!" one of the esquires cried out, slashing at an Easterling, who ducked and brought his axe down so hard, he clove the lad's shield nigh in two. Ere the esquire could recover, he was on him again, and Pippin flinched as the lad went down, and one of Minharin's assistants with him. The old healer himself swore, and drew his dagger as he stood over his patient with his remaining esquire against the wave of foes that seemed to wash over them like the sea over the shore.  
  
For his part, Pippin swiftly realized precisely why Aragorn had been so reluctant to take him along: he quickly lost all sense of where he was in the battle, and more than anything, he found himself simply trying to stay out of the way, not to be trampled underfoot, or to trip his own, and fearful, in all the confusion, of perhaps accidentally stabbing at one of his own fellows. He did fell a few orcs, and even one or two Men, but a knee slammed into his head, knocking him half-senseless to the ground, where someone else knocked the breath from him when he tripped over him.  
  
Desperately, Pippin climbed back up, one hand pressing his aching skull, and wove among the forest of legs 'til he stumbled at last into an open space. Well, open save for the bodies there, which he scrambled back from, seeking some escape or a place where he could pause for a moment, but there were always more corpses. Grey and green: the colors leapt out at him more than the faces. Grey and green, and some with red bands about their arms: friendly colors. _Minharin?_ Of a sudden, a body fell right before him. Pippin froze, staring at it, and then with horror looked up to find himself somehow nearly upon the front lines.... and in the shadow of a troll, no less.  
  
Backpedaling furiously, Pippin glanced around seeking some safety. But behind him, men still struggled with the mob of orcs and Haradrim and Easterlings; and before him... Before him, down the line, even as he looked on, one of the trolls made a sudden snatch into the middle of a crowd of men, and the standard of Pelargir was plucked from their midst... right along with the standard-bearer, who screamed as the troll grasped his arms overhead and ripped him apart in a gory spectacle.  
  
 _Merciful heavens!_ Pippin felt sick, felt faint, but some instinct warned him against it. _Stand up, Pippin, you've got to stay standing up, or it is over!_ And for all he wanted this battle to end, he did not wish to end it with the dead.  
  
Lifting his eyes once more, and gasping in great, aching lungfuls of air against the black spots that still threatened to grow and engulf his vision, he stared up at the clot of men before him. Amid the spears flew still the White Tree and stars and crown of Elendil, and a mass of grey cloaks. _Rangers!_ Rangers indeed, and it seemed that they knew their business: several of them had a troll on the end of their spears, seeking out the weak points in its armor to plant their weapons and so pinion it, driving together to force the troll back.  
  
But troll's hides are thick, and their rage great; in an unexpected turn of affairs, the troll dug its heels in and pushed back. Spears sank deeper into its flesh, but it freed one arm, gripped the hafts of several spears in its broad hand, and squeezed. They broke, and the other spearmen staggered as the troll twisted, ripping free... and then it charged right back in, wielding its mace. Pippin saw men go down in a spray of blood, as grey-cloaked figures loomed suddenly large before him, indeed all around him as the Rangers retreated, bearing their standard with them. But the troll was swifter than its cousins in Eriador. Darting forward, it beat two men aside, narrowly missing Pippin only because he was short enough to duck beneath the mace with little trouble, but on the backswing—  
  
"Halbarad!" Pippin cried out in dismay, as the Ranger was swept off his feet and landed in a heap some little distance away. The troll, seeing this, roared its triumph, but Halbarad was not quite finished yet. Gasping with pain, he tried to rise, to push himself up on one elbow, but his face was ashen, save where blood flowed from a gash on his brow, and he collapsed back, pressing his right arm close to his body with his left. A shadow fell upon Pippin, and he looked up to see the troll stooping over them both, one grasping hand extended to grasp and rend his victim...  
  
 _Above the knee, below the edge of the mail._ It flashed through his mind in a heartbeat what he must do, and without thinking, he acted. With a wordless cry, he flung himself forward, ducking under the troll's vast girth, and small as he was, he had only to raise his sword and straighten up. The tip of the blade went in beneath the armor, right up to the hilt, and Pippin, shouting still incoherently, simply ran. The troll shrieked, and jerked back, nearly wresting Pippin's blade from his grasp, dragging him to his knees as he struggled to keep a grip on it.  
  
There was much shouting then, and the sound of arrows striking flesh, ere men swarmed about him again: more men with spears to deal with the troll, though from the sound of it, there was little left to deal with. Pippin, however, remained where he was, shivering violently, panting, sickly aware of the hot blood and viscera that drenched him and dripped now onto the ground. But after a little while, he staggered to his feet, wiped at his face, and made his unsteady way over to where Halbarad still lay, curled now onto one side.  
  
"Pippin?" he wheezed as the hobbit reached him.  
  
"You're hurt," Pippin said, rather unnecessarily, and jerked his hand back when Halbarad winced at even a light touch to the shoulder. "I'm sorry! I don't know—"  
  
"Captain!" Another figure joined them—one of the Rangers, sword drawn as he knelt, and Halbarad let go his injured arm long enough to gesture impatiently to the standard that lay nearby.  
  
"Go! I am done here," he hissed through gritted teeth, and the other nodded.  
  
"Aye, sir." To Pippin's surprise, the man gave him a nod of approval and a flicker of a smile, ere he sheathed his sword and moved to take up the flag and Halbarad's place in the line, to the sound of a joyous, vengeful chorus of " _Aurë entuluva!_ " The hiss of massed arrows overhead told of the archers' lines reformed behind them, apparently having succeeded in defending themselves against the onslaught. Before them, ranks were reforming, doubling up, and Pippin, following the standard of Elendil, caught a brief glimpse of a familiar face standing by it—Aragorn, who as it happened, was staring right at them. Pippin started to raise a hand, to signal that all was well, but by then, he had already turned away. Pippin saw Andúril flash blood-red as Aragorn led the charge that surged forward once more.  
  
Which left him still with one badly wounded Ranger, and the hobbit looked about desperately for red arm bands. A ways away, he spied a healer and an assistant, and he rose then, waving his arms overhead as he shouted: "Over here! Help me over here, please!"  
  
The healer looked up from his current patient, then lifted his chin in acknowledgment, ere he bent over his work again with a sharp word for his helper. Pippin nodded, relieved, and crouched by Halbarad's side, then, murmuring, "It's all right. The healers will come in a moment."  
  
"What about Aragorn?" Halbarad demanded, thrusting Pippin's concern aside, and pained grey eyes sought his. "Did you see—?"  
  
"I did. He's fine, I think; at least, he was still fighting just a moment ago. I think he saw us," Pippin replied, and Halbarad uttered something prayerful and sighed. Brow knit with worry, the hobbit asked, "Can I do anything? Should I—?"  
  
"No. 'Tis just a headache and a broken arm," Halbarad grunted, and then winced. "And maybe some ribs," he amended, hoarsely. "Yourself?"  
  
"Me? Oh, I'm fine. Scraped knees, maybe," Pippin said, managing a smile for the other.  
  
"Good." Halbarad closed his eyes, and Pippin listened worriedly as the other sucked in a ragged breath. Then: "Thank you for my life, Peregrin Took."  
  
"Well, I didn't want you to miss the dagger," Pippin said after a moment, feeling his cheeks heat a little. _Was that a laugh?_ he wondered, and was relieved when finally the healer arrived. Pippin stood then, moving a little ways away to stand with his sword drawn, watching the battle that raged on, in case any enemies should break through again, or rise up from the appalling carpet of corpses.  
  
But none did, and after a short while, he heard his name called, and hurried back to find the healer helping an unsteady Halbarad to his feet. He had done something clever with the Ranger's cloak, pulling up a hem and pinning it so that Halbarad could rest his arm in the make-shift sling formed by the folds.  
  
"Those who can walk, we are sending back to the ships," the healer told him as he approached. "He will need to get his ribs wrapped to help his breathing, and that arm will need better care than this, but he should be able to make the docks. It would be better, though, if he had help."  
  
"I will go with him, then," Pippin confirmed, and the healer gave him a weary smile, clapped him on the shoulder, and then handed Halbarad off to the hobbit.  
  
"Go slowly, and be mindful: the archers may not have got all the enemy wounded, or they may flank us yet," he warned. So saying, he moved on to find his next patient. The slither and hiss of steel drew Pippin's attention back to his charge, and he frowned up at the Ranger, who had his sword drawn in his left hand.  
  
"Halbarad, you cannot truly think to rejoin the battle—" he began.  
  
"Should we come upon aught," the Ranger explained tersely, and left it at that, unless it were to swing the sword once or twice, giving it a quick twirl, as if to assure himself of his grip before he lowered it to his side. "You should go with the healers—I can find my way back."  
  
Pippin shook his head. "Minharin is dead, and I'm more use here. After all," he said, and shrugged, "I'm not really a soldier. I only came because I wanted to keep an eye on Strider, and help him if I could. I thought I would help best if I could follow him into a battle, like everyone else." He paused and looked up at his wounded companion. "Maybe I am _some_ use there," he concluded, "but I think I can help best right now if I see you back to the ships." _For you he needs safe and whole,_ Pippin thought, thinking back to their conversation on the ship; _Because if he doesn't care for Elessar, he can't be Strider all the time, either._  
  
Either Halbarad understood him, or else he was simply too weary and pained to argue any longer. With a tired nod, he acquiesced, and they began making their halting way south to the quays.  
  
  
  
Thus it was that Pippin did not see the defeat of the _mumâkil_ , or the driving of the enemy from the field. He did not see the retaking of the First Circle, or the final hunting of the Haradrim and Easterlings in the far holds of the farmsteads. He was not present when, at long last, the lords and captains of three realms met in the midst of Pelennor, and spoke in grave counsel upon the bloody greensward where the standards of Rohan and Elendil, of Pelargir and Westfold and Dol Amroth flew now unchallenged. Nor was he there with the assembled hosts to see the lifting of the veil of fear from the gates of the City when the Dead at long last departed, their oath fulfilled and service blessed. And he was not there to witness the Captains of the West, bearing with them biers upon which rested two young men, one fair and one dark, in sorrow ascending to the Citadel, where Imrahil knelt before the white-faced Steward of Gondor, and laid a great horn upon Faramir's breast, and said:  
  
"Your sons have returned, lord, after great deeds."  
  


* * *

  
  
A/N: I would like to thank those who helped guide me towards some articles on the duties of standard-bearers, Gwynnyd and Shadow975 in particular. I owe special thanks to one especially helpful soul who prefers to remain anonymous, but who was instrumental in helping me understand both the task of a standard-bearer and the tactics I have tried to incorporate into this chapter. Thank you, sir. All mistakes, inaccuracies, and wild exaggerations from these and all chapters are of course my own.  
  
 _Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinomë maruvan._ —"The Steward and the King," RotK, 274. "Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come. In this place will I abide."  
  
 _Fear no darkness_ —"The Ride of the Rohirrim," RotK, 122.  
  
 _Aurë entuluva!_ —"Of the Fifth Battle," Silmarillion, 238. "Day shall come again."  
  
 _"Your sons have returned, lord, after great deeds."_ —Cf. "The Siege of Gondor," RotK, 103.


	40. The Steward and the Kings

Night had fallen, and the city lay in darkness. Legolas sat upon the lonely seat atop the battlement of the keel and stared down all the levels of Minas Tirith. Fires still burned, sending up smoke and ash; few lamps were lit otherwise, though upon the Pelennor field, torchlight winked and bonfires dotted the darkness. Some, he knew, were charnel fires—keen elven eyes could just make out the tiny figures passing before them with their burdens which they left for the flames. Sometimes, at least, he could see them; other times, his eyes seemed filled with shadows that pulsed and throbbed, like malice in the heart, Sight clouding sight.  
  
He had not wished to return to the Citadel, but he had felt himself bound to do so. _Should we live to see Pelennor clear of our foes, then you will bear a message to him,_ Denethor had said, and then commended him to the exile of Aragorn's camp. So he had come, following the captains as they had made the long, grieving ascent, and the higher he climbed, the more blind had Sight grown, the Darkness that he had Seen and sensed from the moment he had arrived that first time in the Seventh Circle occluded sight the more insistently the nearer he drew to the heights.  
  
 _Has every heart of every kingdom of Men its own Shadow?_ he had wondered, struggling against its intrusions. It was disturbing, enough so that he had not entered the Tower, but stood upon the steps just without, while Prince Imrahil and the others had entered. No one had questioned his withdrawal from the procession, and he had waited for a summons.  
  
But none had come. Eventually, some of the captains had emerged, though not Imrahil, nor Théoden. Háma had, however, which had rather surprised the elf, for the chief Warden was diligent in his duty to the King of Rohan, but Legolas had rather speech with him than with Forlong, who had also emerged and stood some little distance away upon the steps, apparently lost in his own thoughts.  
  
"What goes within?" Legolas had asked the warden, and Háma, recognizing him, had answered straightforwardly, if with an edge to his voice:  
  
"There is some dispute about Lord Aragorn's claim in Gondor, it seems," he had said, and shaken his head. "Some argument over how he left his service as Thorongil—whether there had been some agreement between Ecthelion and him, to have him disappear ere the Haradrim could demand his head or the like. Old grievances, I gather, wrapped up in new grief."  
  
"The steward paints him a deserter?" Legolas had summarized, after a quick consideration of this report.  
  
"Aye. Before my time, all such intrigues. The prince of Dol Amroth argues with him now, and my liege waits upon word of that debate, while he sees to his son."  
  
Weary as he was, distracted by the sickly beat of shadow upon his heart, it had taken Legolas a moment, even knowing as he did the arrangement, to realize Háma meant Éomer. That at least might explain Háma's presence here, rather than with the king; no doubt, Théoden would wish for a little time to himself. Legolas for his part had felt the ache of loss redouble itself. He had seen Faramir fall, had known the wound for mortal ere ever he and Imrahil had reached him. It had been a blow to learn Éomer, too, had fallen.  
  
 _Felled by the same hand, even!_ he thought, and wondered how Aragorn had taken the news. _And what of the Grey Company?_ How many remained? How many men had been lost in the thrust from Harlond? He thought of Éowyn, far away in Dunharrow, waiting on word of her brother who had loved her so and for whom she had paid so heavy a price. He thought of Gimli, who had given up his life that Éomer might live and felt a terrible sense of the waste of this war that nevertheless could not _not_ be fought. More than ever, he felt himself held fast to that vengeance that spurred him on beyond the pale of duty, as he had told Faramir. Poor Faramir, pitted against a foe beyond his strength by duty and a cruel turn of fortune...  
  
Legolas shifted, turning his face into the wind that came now off the mountain, seeking at least this comfort from his lofty perch. He had come here to wait away from the others, hoping thus to escape the suffocating atmosphere that lay within the walls. But though darkness lay over the land, still he could not but be aware that he sat directly before the Ephel Dúath, that he faced Mordor across but twenty leagues at best of land. The menace of the East gaped back at him in the night, and he shuddered, as the Song grew once more, twisting and swelling with yet too many Silences so that each Note sounded shrill, disturbing his own song...  
  
The prince of Mirkwood shook his head violently, and drew a deep breath. The sting of ash even helped, for it drew him down to earth once more, to the small concerns of bodies, even political ones. If word came not soon, he resolved, he would leave this place and go to the Citadel to discover what passed there, or whether Denethor remembered, even, his ultimatum. So decided, he composed himself to wait and wonder.  
  
  
  
Nor he alone, for in the Citadel, Théoden sat upon the chair that a courteous guard had brought him, and his heart was heavy. So also were his limbs, and he, wincing, wondered how many times he could meet the trial of his strength and win through to another day's aching joints and muscles. Good to know, of course, that they remained and could bear the use he put them to, harsh as it was, but old men must let go their illusions more ruthlessly than the young where war is concerned. For young men may forget, between battles, that they are mortal, but old men see death on the horizon as surely as the sun, and know it must come for them sooner rather than later.  
  
 _But not soon enough!_ he thought, mournfully, as he gazed upon the bed of state. Éomer lay there now, to the left of the dais—the shield-man's place. While Imrahil and what remained of the Council of Gondor had disappeared with Denethor to argue the steward's refusal to treat with Aragorn, Théoden had stood silently by, Háma at his side, and watched the solemn esquires erect one bed to each side of the aisle. It had been some time later that a boy—perhaps nine or ten years of age, Théoden had guessed—had come and bowed low before asking whether he would come and tell the women that the Houses of Healing had sent whether he was satisfied with their preparations. Of course he had agreed.  
  
"Should the prince come, ask him to wait, for I should not be long and I would hear the news," he had told Háma, and then followed the boy, who led him out to a small, clean chamber where a pair of women—one very young, the other surely no less old (or at least, no less _aged_ ) than Théoden, both dressed in healer white—waited, Éomer lying on a stone table between them. Here, perhaps, kings and princes and stewards had reposed ere they had been brought to the hall for others to make their farewells. It was not difficult to imagine, as he looked upon the women's contrivances.  
  
They had washed him and cleaned and replaced the armor, though Théoden did not recognize the sable shirt they had dressed him in that showed at throat and wrists. The high, silver-embroidered black collar but made the pallor of bloodless flesh more stark in contrast, and the voice of practicality found time to observe that Faramir would have the worse of it in that regard. His hair they had left free, and one of women had made an artful attempt to let some of it cover the brutal bruising and cuts to one cheek, where the Witch-king's gauntleted fist had struck. His hands they had folded just below his breast, covering the fatal rent in the armor. Helm, sword hilt, and shield lay still to one side.  
  
"We did not know what the custom might be in Rohan, concerning how to array such," one of them, the old woman, had said, curtseying. "What should we tell the esquires when they come, sire?"  
  
Once upon a time, Théoden had been a king well-versed in the art of courtly negotiation; he had held his ground in argument and his temper in the midst of tense debate. War had dashed the rust from the iron will that had seen him gracefully through all such heated matters, tempered it again, and so he replied in a steady voice, "Leave his head bare. There is no shame to cover in such wounds as he bears—let all see who would the marks of our Enemy and know he withstood him. Otherwise, lay his helm at his side, and the shield beneath his head and it will suffice. I will place the sword in his hands myself, as is proper among kinsmen."  
  
They had murmured their understanding, and the old woman had sent the young one off to instruct the esquires who would bear Éomer hence to the great hall again. She, however, had remained a moment, and her eyes had been kind as she asked, "Would you take a little time alone with him, sire?"  
  
He had nodded at that, and thanked her as she had departed, quietly closing the door behind her. In the lantern-lit silence, he had approached and laid hands upon his sister-son, the right upon the crown of his head, the left upon Éomer's hands, and he had squeezed suddenly hard against the anguish that welled up.  
  
" _O my son!_ "  
  
The Rohirrim were a musical people, who set their hearts free in song, and though Gríma had robbed him of heart and voice alike for long, no son of Eorl could ever truly forget the way of such music. It came hard between pain and disuse, but Théoden sang then for the peace of two souls, and he wept as he sang, his voice raw and rough to his ears, but he cared not for that. He sang for Éomer, as swift lost to him as found, and he sang for Théodred, who had gone unsung and unblessed to his end and who, for all he knew, he might never see to his proper rest. For their bright days and the life and laughter that should have been their due, he sang. And he sang for himself, especially for himself, for the great aching emptiness that no memory could fill, and he gathered Éomer into his arms, and held on, and held on...  
  
At long last, the trembling stilled in him; it was all sung out, and he drew a shuddering breath, kissed Éomer's hair, and laid him down gently once more. He brushed the long, golden locks from his sister-son's face, letting his fingers have their fill of caress as he did so, and then he went and retrieved the broken shard. There he paused a moment, for the hilt was plain—well made, but certainly not Gúthwinë. In his grief, he had not noticed the difference—no one had, for it had lain beneath Éomer's hand, and had simply been brought up with him.  
  
 _Whose is it, then?_ he wondered, and wondered, too, whether that meant Gúthwinë were on the field still. But such questions could keep; there was no dishonor in burying his son with the blade that had smote the Witch-king, futile blow though it had been, and Théoden would see Éomer well-barrowed.  
  
Custom in Gondor placed a man's hands over his heart, with the sword pointing downwards, but the Mark was more particular. For a man who died in battle it was deemed proper that his sword be unsheathed and "raised," so that the tip rested upon his lips, symbol of his lasting (and last) defiance. There was not nearly enough of the blade left for such, but Théoden wound Éomer's hands about the hilt and laid it so that the shard at least lay over his heart.  
  
Then there was naught left to do but make his farewell. Théoden wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, then stooped and kissed his nephew finally upon the lips. "Good rest in Gondor, son of my heart," he murmured, and left him then, opening the door to find the old woman standing silent guard without, while two esquires waited a little further up the hall, apparently at her order.  
  
"My thanks, lady," he had said, and she gave him another sweet smile, before she beckoned the two young men to join her.  
  
Théoden had left them to their final preparations, returning to the great hall, where Háma looked him up and down, then made him a slight bow. "Nothing yet, sire, I—" he had begun to say, but at that very moment, voices sounded. Both men had looked up to see a stream of grim-faced councilors emerge from the door just to the right of the dais, Forlong in the lead, his broad face florid and angry.  
  
"What news, lord?" Théoden had called to him. The lord of Lossarnach glanced sharply toward him, recognition set in, and he had changed course to join the king of the Mark. "Does it go so ill?"  
  
"It does. We who met on the field speak with one voice: at least Denethor must speak with Lord Aragorn. 'Tis the only way to resolve such questions as we all have. But he will not bend."  
  
"Is he truly so obstinate?"  
  
"You were not much in Gondor when Thorongil was, sire," Forlong had replied, darkly. "I rode in with my father often, and after some years, it was all about the court that there was some grudge or disliking between them. They kept it close, but you could feel it whenever they were together—like lightning had struck. And there were many rumors, in afterdays, that Thorongil had left because he knew ere long, Denethor must take up the rod, for Ecthelion's health was not good even then. And some said it was wise, while others held if he were truly the servant of the steward, he would have stayed, for Gondor's sake. Still others thought he _did_ serve Gondor by leaving, so that Denethor and Ecthelion could tell Umbar with a good conscience that they harbored him no longer."  
  
Forlong had sighed. "'Tis all old gossip now," he had said, waving a hand dismissively. "If ever anyone knew the truth of it, it would be the councilors of those days, but of them, there remains only Denethor, for we have all succeeded our fathers. And our fathers told us nothing of this matter."  
  
"What of Imrahil? Can he not persuade him?" Théoden had asked.  
  
"Who knows? He tries still—'twas he that asked us to leave, though what good he thinks to accomplish, I know not." Forlong had shaken his head. "Finduilas lies still between them, though she is long gone from us."  
  
"A man must love his sister," Théoden had murmured, and Forlong had cleared his throat, shifting his not inconsiderable weight at that.  
  
"And his wife, also," the lord of Lossarnach had rumbled. "There is no peace to be found between brother and husband, in this or any matter, I think."  
  
Théoden had considered this briefly, then said, "Then especially in this matter, we must not leave it to husband and brother." He had tilted his head toward the doors at the far end of the hall. "You should go to your rest, Lord Forlong. I will wait on the prince's report."  
  
"There shall be little rest while all remains unsettled," Forlong had replied. But he had given Théoden a courteous nod and bid him good night. After which, the king of the Mark had turned to his chief warden and, laying hand upon his shoulder, said:  
  
"You should go with Lord Forlong, Háma, and take some air. I shall wait here, and see that indeed all is done rightly for Éomer. When I am done, I shall come find you," he had instructed in a low voice. Háma had frowned at this, plainly wishing to remain, but he had acquiesced, wordlessly, and departed.  
  
So Théoden had come to his present seat and double vigil, and he wearied of the day, wishing for a few hours release to sleep and lay down for a time the ache of body and soul. But the matter with Denethor must be attended to, and as he sat pondering Forlong's words anew, suddenly the door off the far side of the dais opened, and after a few moments, the prince of Dol Amroth strode swiftly into view. His was not the face of a man whose news was good, though Imrahil had too great a dignity to let it show overmuch, beyond the tight set of his jaw and the unwonted (even for one of Gondor's great lords) somberness of face. He paused before the biers, gazing at his sister-son, but though Théoden had said nothing, nor made any move to disturb him yet, Imrahil caught sight of him. Straightening, he left Faramir, and the king of the Mark rose slowly to greet him.  
  
"Sire," Imrahil said.  
  
"Prince Imrahil," Théoden replied. "What said he?"  
  
Imrahil sighed, folding his arms across his chest. "He will not send for him. I have pressed him as hard as I dare, but any more from me and I fear he shall refuse to hear such arguments as a matter of principle."  
  
"Will he not even send Legolas to say he will meet Aragorn at the gates?" Théoden asked.  
  
"We did not discuss that," Imrahil replied, and at Théoden's surprised look, said tautly, "I thought it best, given the tale Forlong told when we met on the field, to let any mention of Legolas lie. Denethor will be a long time forgiving that ruse, if ever he does."  
  
Théoden sighed inaudibly, but he nodded, for that decided his course. "Then, as I helped craft that ruse, let me speak with him. He may choose not to hear an erring councilor," he said, and smiled apologetically at the prince for the description, "but he will hear the king of the Mark, his ally, whether he will or no."  
  
"I am grateful for your aid, sire, but it may be wiser to leave him the night to reflect—" Imrahil began, but Théoden shook his head.  
  
"We do not have the night. We must speak tomorrow of the next step; we must settle our ranks. We must address the fact that Elendil's banner has been raised, and that Gondor has no heir and no Captain-General anymore, unless it is you, sir. But if it be you, who have already bent your knee to Aragorn, then the steward must meet with him and end all confusion," he replied. Imrahil grimaced.  
  
"I know, and yet hard as ever he is to sway, Denethor may well be intractable for the present."  
  
"Perhaps," Théoden conceded. Imrahil gave him a searching look, but then inclined his head respectfully.  
  
"Then I will hope that you see what I cannot, sire, and find a way to move him." With that, the prince of Dol Amroth turned and strode for the doors. In his wake, Théoden stood and stared down at the smooth floor, listening to Imrahil's retreating footsteps 'til he heard the door creak and close behind him. Then he turned to the guards who had taken up their places about the bier, and said to them:  
  
"Will you leave us for a time? I shall send for you again in due course."  
  
The escort of Riders bowed at once and obeyed, but the Gondorian honor guard hesitated.  
  
"Sire, our lord commands—"  
  
"It is so that I may speak with your lord that I ask you to depart for awhile," Théoden told him. "Be not concerned: I shall intercede with him for you. Beyond that, 'tis my son, too, who lies here. I shall take care of his honor, and so also of Faramir's."  
  
That had convinced them, apparently, and so they had left, and Théoden had walked a slow circuit about the beds, 'til he stood at last in the shadow of the stairs that led to the empty throne, and he unsheathed Herugrim, setting the point upon the floor and resting his hands upon the cross-hilts.  
  
And then he waited, for although it had been long indeed since he had dealt face to face with Denethor, or even his messengers, he thought he knew enough of the man to be certain of one thing: that there was no need to go in search of him, for grief would bring him here eventually.  
  
 _And then we shall speak, and perhaps two terrified old men may yet serve their purpose._  
  
  
It was late, and Imrahil long since departed when at last, Denethor left the private office in which they had quarreled. But rather than make his way up into the high chamber, as was his habit, he found his steps turning thoughtlessly, inevitably, down the corridor that led to the great hall. But if his destination were clear, little else was, and thought shied away from that 'little else' even as feet drew him inexorably toward it. And as he went, the hateful words of the message still tucked in his pocket whispered to him:  
  
 _I have a message for you, lord, from your son, which you should hear. Do not inquire of Legolas—he knows it not, nor knows the content of this missive. He does but what I have asked of him, and knows not the reason. But you and I must meet, if fortune favors us, for Gondor's sake. I beg you at least believe we have that in common still, if nothing else, lest the dead past overtake and strangle what hope we have for Gondor's future.—Aragorn, son of Arathorn, of the House of Elendil_  
  
I have a message... from your son. Denethor had shuttered that line from his thoughts for days and nights now, as the news from the lower circles had worsened. He had grasped the import of that dreadful line immediately: the entire message reeked of contrivance, and to Denethor, who could read between the lines easily enough, Boromir's absence spoke for itself. _He is dead._ No sooner had the traitor voice of grief spoken than Denethor had thrust it ruthlessly aside, insistently grinding grief under a mental and sharply logical heel. There was, after all, only Thorongil's word—hardly disinterested!—for it, and without proof, he would not admit it.  
  
And so he had sought him, night after night, when he could bear no more the reports from the field, in the _palantír's_ thick glass. But since the turn of summer last, the world had grown dark, Gondor especially so: visions heaved and swelled in a chaos of obscure images, fading and returning with no rhyme or reason and despite all his efforts to steady them. Once, he thought he saw him, saw Boromir, and hope had flared briefly, only to drain painfully away with the darkened image that could not satisfy his doubts. The Seeing Stone might not lie, but it, too, could be blinded, and Denethor feared the power that could put out that eye. 'Twas not the Dark Lord's contrivance, he thought; the Enemy might veil himself even as Denethor could—so all the ancient texts said—but could even he veil all Middle-earth when Gondor stood still?  
  
Thus had the sleepless nights of the siege worn away, gnawed ever by the voice of doubt that asked whether he thought to see his son returning or else his final fate in the flickering glass. And in the blank darkness that stared often back at him in the Seeing Stone, he was haunted by the image, gleaned he knew not whence, of Boromir lying still and silent in a grey boat upon a river, and a chill settled into his bones. _What nightmare vision is this?_ he demanded, and more and more suspicion crept in: if it were true foresight, what _did_ Thorongil, who now signed himself 'Aragorn,' know of it? _What,_ he wondered, and felt the cold within harden, _had he to_ do _with my son?_  
  
He had thought, if by some stroke of fortune Minas Tirith outlasted her foes, to fetch him hence—to use the elf, who might indeed be unwitting, but it hardly mattered, so long as Thorongil came—and have the truth of the matter out of him in private. Or at least get him away from his followers, where Denethor might be assured that Ecthelion's most favored erstwhile captain should not depart without notice and unquestioned a second time.  
  
That had been before the arrival of the lords of Gondor and Rohan, before Imrahil had laid his second-born at his feet, and the great horn of Gondor, too—a 'token' from Thorongil, and for just a moment, as the speechless steward had stared down at the broken body of the son he had sent to the walls, faces and features had blurred. Was it Faramir, or was it Boromir who lay before him? And it could not be—thought and heart rebelled alike—could _not_ be both of them. Not both of them...  
  
 _No!_ "Enough!" he had cut Imrahil off, as the prince had come at last to deliver Thorongil's—or Aragorn's—request for an audience.  
  
"My lord?" Imrahil had asked, and Denethor had drawn himself up, signaling to the guards to come and do their duty by the dead.  
  
"I will not receive a deserter who would be also a usurper," he had declared, his voice flat. "I will not dishonor the dead by allowing such a one to pass our gates."  
  
The arguments had begun almost at once, and since retiring to the council room beyond the great hall, had continued without cease, 'til at last even Imrahil had given up and departed. For a time, Denethor had stood staring down at the council table, at his hands white upon its dark wood—white, and thin, the skin taught over the bones. Not wrinkled. Not yet, but a tremor had shaken them that he remembered from days long past—amid the ruins of battlefields, when he had had a moment to himself to wash up, he would hold his hands before him and watch them shake, then clench his fists 'til the ache of that tension burned in all the muscles from elbows to fingertips and he could not bear it anymore. Still, it had taken hours, sometimes, before the trembling had subsided.  
  
It might take as long tonight, and as he emerged into the great hall, hands clasped behind him, he could feel the spasms, still, of rage and grief and still more unwelcome feeling that cut deeper than either. Denethor stared at the bier, at the still, sable-shrouded figure atop it. Guilt was a cruel mistress, and her eyes pierced deep into the burdened heart, particularly the heart that had sought so long to deny her. _He is dead. I sent him to this. I sent them both..._  
  
The pain of that truth, borne home immediately by the sight of his son laid out before him, had come like the bite of cold water on a winter's morn that breaks uneasy sleep. The ugliness of their parting, thrust aside since the siege, had overwhelmed him then and brought with it how many countless other grievances never resolved over the long years of strife between them.  
  
But it was not enough Faramir should be taken from him, without hope of amends—the horn that Imrahil had brought had persuaded him as Thorongil's message had not. Though he knew well Boromir had preceded his brother to the grave, the unreasoning heart insisted that his fate was linked to Faramir's, that his death was blood money, demanded by the fortune that had ever marked him as the favored son. If the younger must die as he had lived, without a father's blessing, then the elder must perish with him, who had ever enjoyed it. The horn laid upon Faramir's breast was the seal of fate's sentence, and the pain of it had nearly unmanned him.  
  
And it might yet undo him. Faramir's face was pale and still, yet a great weariness—of war and world—was evident even in its final repose, suffering graven somehow into his face though age would never line it now, and Denethor could avoid the truth no longer: _I put this upon him..._ "Faramir," he whispered, and could speak no further, nor move...  
  
"I am told he fought very bravely, and held the gate against the very face of terror." Denethor stiffened, broken free of his reflections by the habitual and instant reassertion of public face and posture, and his eyes darted toward the figure the shadows disgorged. Théoden of Rohan made him a salute with his blade, then sheathed it as he moved forward to stand by Éomer's bier. The king of the Mark reached to touch gently his nephew's face, stroked his cheek tenderly.  
  
" _Wyrd bith ful arœd_ ," he murmured sadly. " _Swa thes middangeard ealra dogra gehwam, dreoseth ond fealleth._ "  
  
"Where are the guards?" Denethor demanded, abrupt in his startlement and suddenly, resentfully aware of their absence.  
  
"I sent them away," the king of Rohan replied. At that, Denethor was silent a moment, then his expression cooled, hardened, and he said, in a clipped tone:  
  
"There is nothing to discuss, Théoden. You should to bed."  
  
"Éomer sleeps for us both. And I would keep my son's company a little longer," Théoden replied, without ire.  
  
 _Son?_ Something flinched within him at the very word, and the desperate need for solitude was as a weight. Nevertheless:  
  
"I did not know. Rohan's loss is greater than the tale made it," Denethor managed, gracefully enough, and turned his face away, staring at the torchlight that reflected dully from the floors.  
  
"As is Gondor's," Théoden replied, and seemed sincere, even, but nonetheless would not leave him in peace. After but a short pauses "This is a house of shadows. How many know that Boromir is dead?"  
  
"Word spreads quickly when there is advantage in it, I doubt not," Denethor replied, voice hardening once more.  
  
"If that is so, then this dispute," the king observed, "must rouse much bitterness among many, and confusion in those who understand it not, Denethor."  
  
"I should not have counted you among the latter. Or is Ælric forgotten in the Mark?"  
  
"Oh, he is well remembered. Very well remembered—and much beloved, for he has been of great help to us, then and now," Théoden replied, and Denethor's jaw clenched at this news, so very reminiscent of times past when what most he desired was their utter obliteration.  
  
"I see," he replied, coldly.  
  
"If you do, then you must explain it to me, steward of Gondor, for I do not see the harm of calling for him."  
  
"You know my mind on this matter already, Théoden," Denethor replied, turning to face the old man.  
  
"Aye, I heard you name Aragorn usurper and deserter," the king of Rohan acknowledged, as he left Éomer's side at last and slowly approached, hands clasped behind him. The torchlight gleamed upon his white braids, paler even than the face of his nephew, of Faramir, white like the horse and tree upon tabards. _We shall all bleed so clean one day soon,_ he thought, and moved to gaze upon his son once more, and felt Théoden's regard haunt him still. _Will he not leave?_ "I do not know what happened in Gondor forty years ago; I do not know the minds of the men who sat in council when Ælric, 'Thorongil' as you called him then, raided Harad and then disappeared from Pelargir. Nor can I say I know he is the Heir of Isildur, save that he seems not mad enough to me to be deluded, nor to be lying. But I know he has given my house succor in time of trial, captained my people once more in battle, and healed them of their wounds, so that some at least may return home who might not have."  
  
"And so he binds you to him—" Denethor began, heatedly, and Théoden answered, just as quickly, ere he could finish:  
  
"Yes, he does. And a far more wholesome traitor he seems to me than the one who whispered in my ear and dripped poison in my veins these last years. So wholesome, I should hold him dear, who befriended my more clear-eyed son and ever-loyal Háma. If he left Gondor without leave forty years ago, does it speak to any need today to bar him from the City he has helped to save?" Théoden paused, then: "Will you not at least speak with him?"  
  
"To what end?" Denethor demanded, sharply. "If I speak with him, but one answer will satisfy others—I know this! But there is no question to be settled: he deserted his post, and now seeks a title that may not be sullied by such crimes."  
  
"If you must stand upon desertion to deny Thorongil, surely I have the prior and better claim, for was he not of the Rohirrim then, bound to serve in terms and not for life? If he left Gondor, is he not beholden to me? If I have found him free of fault, has Gondor any claim upon him?"  
  
"Let Rohan forgive him, then, but Gondor still is owed!"  
  
"I doubt it not, but what is owed? Good service he has rendered: he has delivered Pelargir, he has helped to free Minas Tirith, and he has helped also to bring your allies to you—even the Dead. The lords of this land and their men are willing to follow him whithersoever fate leads. There are kings who hang their crowns upon no more than that, even in Gondor if I recall. If you will not treat with him, therefore, it will sow confusion and dismay. Surely Gondor is owed better than that!"  
  
"You speak as is the wont of men in late times, when present need rules all thoughts. But if the deeds of forty years ago matter to no others, they matter to me," Denethor ground out, and he felt the twist of agony within as he gestured helplessly to Faramir. "Shall I open Minas Tirith to one who would not stay and serve her needs in smaller matters than this, yet who would claim a throne? My sons deserve better than to have all they fought for given over to such careless hands!"  
  
"Aye, your sons deserve better than their lot. _All_ our sons deserve the days that we have had— _that_ would be justice." Théoden paused, raw grief plain upon his face. "Can we give it to them?" Then more softly: "Can you give it to them, if you pursue the course you are upon now?" A long moment, they stood staring at each other, and in the charged air, something flickered: a common pain that Imrahil could not share in and that bound steward to king where the prince of Dol Amroth could but breed resistance. Breath came harsh, and the blood pounded in Denethor's ears as he and Théoden faced each other, and he watched the fire drain from the other's eyes, grief undermining its own strength.  
  
Théoden's shoulders slumped and he swayed; Denethor made an abortive reach, stopped just short, between fire and ice uncertain what to do. The king of Rohan shook his head and shivered slightly, then looked up exhausted at Denethor. "Go then," he said dully, in a low voice. "Do as you will, but for Béma's sake, man, grieve your sons and make it count! It may be all that is left to you... and to us."  
  
With that, Théoden turned away, going once more to Éomer, his fingers trailing along the edge of the bier. They strayed at length to touch the hands closed about the hilt of the sword, and the ran lightly up an arm to linger there upon the young man's shoulder. Just for a moment, then Théoden departed, his footfalls loud in the silence, heavy with grief. The door shut at length behind him, and there stood Denethor, unmoving, 'til at last, he dragged his eyes to look upon Faramir. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he approached him, reached out a hand to touch, drew it back.  
  
 _I cannot!_ Denethor bowed his head, stared at his hands, at the one wringing the other, and he clasped them hard, but the trembling seemed worse than ever. He could feel it in him, too, a quivering about the heart, and he sucked in a breath sharply. But nothing came of it; no release and no relief, just a grey anguish that knew no outside...  
  
It was sometime later he heard the creak of a door and the click of boot heels and ring of mail announced his solitude short-lived. "My lord?" a quiet voice asked at length.  
  
"Yes?" he replied, tersely, turning to see the captain of the honor guard standing there. The man made him a bow, then said:  
  
"The Rohirrim wish to return, since King Théoden has left. What should we tell them, my lord?"  
  
Denethor considered this question a moment, then answered finally: "Tell them they may enter. Bring your men as well. And captain." The man paused. "Send someone to the elf and tell him I would have speech with his master—alone. I shall await him in the high chamber."  
  
"Aye, my lord," the other replied, saluted, and went swiftly to carry out his orders. A little longer, Denethor stood staring after him, then he turned and gazed once and briefly upon his son, then lifted his chin and without another look, made for the door and the stairs hidden in a little alcove, and began the long ascent. The weariness of five sleepless days made each flight a trial, and Denethor felt his own body as unbearably heavy—guilt was a millstone that left nothing untouched, yet he could not find it in him to resent the struggle with the stairs. Pain was penance, and peace also—thought grew numb and silent before it.  
  
It even remained so when, at last, he came to the final landing, and the door to his private retreat. He went to the eastern window, as was his wont, and sat within the deep embrasure, staring mindlessly out into the darkness, aware of the red glow far below, yet he heeded it not. The emptiness of night was bleak, yet it roused in him a wordless longing—to sink into its indifference that neither knew nor cared for aught of feeling or the small griefs of man but placidly engulfed them all. Vision swam, and for a moment, he saw again Boromir in the boat. Or was it Faramir? They seemed to have grown together, his sons, or was it the night that worked upon them, erasing difference, making a mongrel monstrosity of them?  
  
 _Boromir... Faramir...?_ All the world wavered as under the blur of rain, yet in the end he remained. Aye, he remained, and still there was no release, and no relief, and alone with thoughts-not-quite-thoughts, could not escape himself at last, and a horror gripped him, shook him 'til he thought he should suffocate. And all the while, in the dim reflection of the window, his face remained, a pale blur, unmoved and unmoving, a living effigy...  
  
The knock upon the door came as a shock, then, shattering the silence, and also the sense of timeless abandon, for surely much time must have passed since he had sent the guard captain away, but the night did not show it. Again the knock sounded, and this time Denethor rose and turned toward the door. "Come," he called, and responding to that command, in slipped a grey-cloaked figure. Thorongil's gaze fixed instantly upon Denethor, even as he quietly shut the door behind him, and for a time, the two men simply stood and stared at each other.  
  
 _He has not changed,_ was Denethor's first thought. Thorongil—Aragorn, apparently—might have a few silver threads scattered through his hair now, but otherwise, he was the very image of himself nigh forty years ago. Yet image was not all. Where once there had been a wariness in that grey gaze that bespoke a certain self-doubt and a corresponding weakness, there was now only readiness—the shiftless wanderer had apparently found his ground in the years since he had left Gondor, and found it somewhere beyond Gondor. Denethor felt envy run like fever through him, and anger, too. _Gondor fails, and_ now _he stands firm!_ There was an obscenity there, and contempt colored his tone as he spoke, saying:  
  
"Late the hour and long the absence for one who would be king, Captain Thorongil."  
  
"And the hour shall be later still ere we are done, so let us not bandy barbed words, Steward of Gondor," came the prompt reply. "If there is to be aught left of this land, we cannot afford them. Nor can we afford to let old rivalries divide the ranks."  
  
Which came straight to the point in far fewer words than Denethor might have expected. "No, indeed," he replied and moved to lay his hands upon the intricately carved, cleverly hinged box that sat atop the small, round table set in the middle of the room, beckoning Thorongil forward. "I expect," he said after a moment, when the other stood at the table's edge opposite of him, "that you have some proposal to make, some scheme to put the lords at ease, while remaining free of my authority. You left Gondor for more reason than some other, nameless tasks, did you not?"  
  
Thorongil gave him a hard look, but then nodded. "I would not be bound to you in any way that would give you pretext to make a claim upon me, as lord to liegeman. Nor will I now."  
  
"I thought not. You always bore the yoke too lightly for one who claimed to serve," Denethor replied, bitterly. "But if you will not accept such a bond, then you must prove your claim to me, for I will not treat as ally a deserter who sought to manipulate me. Nor with one who had aught to do with my son's death."  
  
At that, Thorongil's face darkened, but after a moment, he sighed, and said, "Desertion I have no fear of arguing, and deception in the matter of the letter I admit. But your son's death—I fought at Boromir's side, I was there when he passed, and I have carried both his horn and his farewell ever since. I have said as much already and without prompting; if you will not believe that, but inquire after murder, I see not what proof you might accept, for Legolas alone stands as my witness if my word is not enough."  
  
"There are other ways of discerning a man's truthfulness. And if you are in fact of Elendil's line, then that, too, will show—if you have the heart for it," Denethor replied, watching the other closely. Thorongil's eyes narrowed, as he sought some guidance in these words or some sign in Denethor's face or posture that would make sense of this speech.  
  
"What way do you propose?" he asked at last, and Denethor reached into a pocket and withdrew a key, which he inserted carefully into the lock of the box and gave a twist. He raised the lid, withdrew a black silken cloth, then carefully withdrew the pins set into the box's joints, all the while watching Thorongil.  
  
"Come and look. Do you know this?" he asked. Since the box held still, Denethor having not yet removed the last pin, Thorongil came around the table, eyeing him curiously, and he glanced into the box. Even as he did so, Denethor removed that last pin, and let the sides unfold to reveal a dark globe upon a stand, which, as the two men gazed at it, flashed suddenly to life, drawing them in to—  
  
 _Darkness. Masses of it, save for a dim light at the edges of vision. Denethor felt the other's disorientation and he seized upon it, compelling him to remain, to face him.  
  
_ Open to me—tell me of my son! _  
  
The light at the rim of the world grew, filled the mind's eye, and in the midst of it, a brighter light, in vague shape of man, confronted him, blazed momentarily brighter, becoming nearly blinding as Thorongil's will clashed with his. But Denethor had fought harder contests in the Seeing Stone, and for longer, and he stood firm in his demand:_ Open! Speak of my son! _  
  
A moment longer, the other resisted, and the struggle grew bitter, to the point of pain, and then—  
  
—ceased. The light dimmed, and the world within the glass greyed, then greened as tree and greensward shimmered to life. _Parth Galen _, came the words, unbidden from across the bounds of will, as the tale unfolded...  
  
Orcs spill from the trees, surrounding them, cutting off escape. _Frodo! _  
  
Fear floods in, and then the determined focus of a warrior as the battle is joined, the swirling of chaos. Arrows._ Arrows! _Collision, chaos—_ "Merry! Pippin!" _  
  
Orcs break away, two small, struggling figures in hand, and then—  
  
_ "We cannot win against even this many if the archers remain!" _Boromir growls, and Denethor feels a shock keen as pain to find himself suddenly confronted with his son in memory, Boromir's face contorted with rage and shame, ere he smiles, fierce and fey._ "Take care of them!" _  
  
With a bellowed cry, Boromir cuts past the thinned ring of orcs, bludgeoning those in his path with his shield, leaving Aragorn behind to fill the hole in their knotted defense. And then he turns straight into the hail of arrows and charges the line of archers—  
  
_ "Boromir!" _  
  
The trees shimmer. The land shifts. In a little clearing, there he sits, face grey with pain, and everywhere, everywhere, blood...  
  
Pained grey eyes open, and grief strikes so hard it leaves him breathless—leaves _them _breathless._ 'Twas madness... 'm sorry, Aragorn. My… brother…father… they wait for… me. You must… tell them. Go! Save our people!"  
  
Save our people. O, my Boromir! _  
  
Memory wavered, faded, and for a brief moment, Thorongil appeared before him, just as he was, save that there flickered in his face a strange light—the eagle-star indeed, ere he reached and touched him, and Denethor gasped as everything went to white—_  
  
—and then he was leaning against the table, feeling as though every muscle had gone to water as a familiar weakness washed through him and throbbed dully behind his eyes. Every contest in the Stone had its price, and the greater when he had to struggle with another's will.  
  
The veil was drawn back over the _palantír_ , and Denethor became aware that in fact, someone was gripping his arm. With an effort of will, he straightened, raised his head to find Thorongil regarding him. There was flint in those eyes, for all he kept his mask in place, and he asked, "I trust you are satisfied?"  
  
"The Seeing Stones show only what is—a lie will show," Denethor managed, then jerked free of the other's grip, retreating to sit heavily back in the window embrasure. He was reeling, whether from shock or the struggle with Thorongil, or both, he knew not.  
  
After a time, the dizziness ceased, though the headache remained, sharper than before, even, yet at least he was accustomed to such pain, and he lifted his eyes once more to stare at Thorongil, only to find himself the object of the other's regard, which hovered openly between anger and pity, and perhaps a little horror. Or was it shock? _Revulsion?_  
  
"What have you done to yourself, Denethor?" Thorongil asked quietly.  
  
"What duty demanded," he answered flatly, and felt his lip curl a bit. "Fear not—the glass has grown dark of late, and I can see nothing. You need not try yourself."  
  
Somewhat to his surprise, this elicited no anger, but a look of troubled speculation only. "How long has it been since you saw aught of note?"  
  
"Nine months, perhaps a little longer. Why?"  
  
"If you would know, then call for a council tomorrow morning, and you shall learn the answer," Thorongil replied, a little challengingly. Denethor shook his head.  
  
"Ever you stood on the cusp of insolence in your 'advice.' Call a meeting, you say, if I would be answered? And in whose name should I call this council? Mine? Yours?" he demanded. Thorongil raised a brow.  
  
"Call it for Gondor's sake, in both our names, if you will," he replied. "I care not, so long as I have your judgment tonight whether you will acknowledge me trustworthy as an ally in this venture tomorrow, so that we may set strife aside among ourselves while this war lasts."  
  
"You would be called to take oath as an ally only?" Denethor said, skeptically.  
  
"If it prevented division, yes—the matter of succession can wait."  
  
Denethor grunted, and then grimaced as he rose once more, and felt it in every joint it seemed. He shook his head, replied: "If you believe that, then you but show once more your ignorance of duty! There is no delaying the question—any disagreement among us would but raise the spectre of schism. Moreover, our blood runs thin, royal and otherwise, for the young perish, and the old linger, while the might of the Enemy grows daily."  
  
Bitter the taste of those words upon his tongue, and Denethor fell silent a moment, ere at last he waved a hand. "Take command, then, for all the good it will do us, but if you have your conditions, I have mine, as well."  
  
"Speak them," the other commanded, quietly.  
  
"No doubt there are others you would name Steward, but so long as I breathe, I stand and fall with Minas Tirith, and I will not bow to you. Do as you please, Aragorn—I will call you lord of this realm and leave you and the council to whatever follies you decide, but here I stay, to salvage what I can," Denethor replied.  
  
Aragorn, once Thorongil, stared at him a long moment, and Denethor could feel the keenness of that gaze, once so familiar, but now grown strange to him after so long away from it. But at length, the other nodded. "Very well," he said. "Come tomorrow morning by the second bell to my tent and we shall speak again, Steward of Gondor." A pause, and Aragorn's eyes flicked over him once more. What he saw, Denethor did not know, and frankly, he was glad not to be told. Aragorn inclined his head politely. "Rest well," he said, tellingly—perhaps warningly?—and then departed, leaving Denethor at last to his own thoughts, which crowded his mind now, strung out on the spasms of feeling, and he shut his eyes.  
  
 _Valar, I am weary!_ Indeed, he was likely nigh drunk on exhaustion, perhaps a little delirious with it, for he laughed when he thought of the bargain just made. _A king who will not claim his crown, and a steward who insists upon his rod—the world is mad!_ Mad, and terrible, and of a sudden he sobered.  
  
"The world _is_ mad," he murmured, grief and grievance twining tight in his breast.  
  
And yet still, release did not come.  
  


* * *

  
  
Aragorn had taken Roheryn up to the Seventh Circle, desiring at least a swift coming and departure, however long the interview. Now he called his guard to him—he had not come wholly alone—and the pair of Rangers mounted their horses and followed him back down through the City, passing carefully amid the rubble and then out onto the field. There, a cluster of encampments had sprung up: the Lord of Pelargir and his men had camped perhaps half a mile from the gates of Minas Tirith, while Théoden's Riders had settled north of them. Campfires burned, and beyond them, the funeral flames where still men and women of the City labored to bring the dead. Aragorn had gone to see the first of the great bonfires lit, and had stood with many others, head bowed, as the first of the fallen were given to it, ere he had gone to join the healers in an effort to prevent the flames consuming more than they must.  
  
Not until Legolas had come with word that Denethor had at last decided he would meet with him had he had the time to think of aught else. Now, after the trial of that confrontation, it seemed as if all the hours of the day—indeed, of the past week—had fallen upon him all at once.  
  
It was a relief, therefore, to reach his tent and dismiss his escort, and he was looking no further ahead than his bedroll and oblivion, but the elf who glanced up at his entrance had not the look of one prepared to leave him be. Indeed, no sooner had Aragorn let fall the tent flap than Legolas was upon him, speaking low and urgently:  
  
"A Captain Éothain has come seeking you, Aragorn," he announced, without prelude. "I asked him to wait by the campfire."  
  
Aragorn frowned, rubbed at his eyes as he sought briefly in memory ere he asked, "Has Théoden some message?"  
  
"No. He said he was here on his own behalf and that his message concerned a friend left in his care," Legolas replied, and green eyes narrowed. "What does he mean by that, Aragorn? There were no Rangers who rode with the Rohirrim."  
  
For a moment, Aragorn was equally confused, but then he thought of Pippin, of whom he had had no chance to inquire, and of their words in Dunharrow...  
  
"Ai, Elbereth," he muttered. "Merry!"  
  
"Merry? What—?" But Aragorn was already on his way out, though Legolas was hard upon his heels, apparently having decided the swiftest way to enlightenment lay simply in following him.  
  
The Rangers had built a fire for themselves some little ways away from Aragorn's tent, and as he and Legolas approached, one of the men standing before it glanced up, saw them, and limped stiffly to meet them. The firelight illumined the white horse upon his stained tabard, and he pushed his hood back to reveal tousled, pale hair.  
  
"Lord Ælric, I am Éothain of Aldburg—the Third Marshal's captain," he introduced himself.  
  
"Captain," Aragorn greeted him sparely, then said: "I am told this concerns a friend."  
  
"Aye, lord," Éothain replied, then hesitated a moment. Which was enough to confirm the worst fear, and into the silence, Aragorn said grimly:  
  
"Bring us to him."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
_Poor Faramir, pitted against a foe beyond his strength by duty and a cruel turn of fortune..._ —Cf. "The Houses of Healing," RoTK, 156.  
  
" _Wyrd bith ful arœd ... Swa thes middangeard ealra dogra gehwam, dreoseth ond fealleth._ "—lines borrowed from [The Wanderer](http://www.georgetown.edu/labyrinth/library/oe/texts/a3.6.html), lines 6 and 63-64. Most readable translation I could find, despite disclaimers at top: [Michael J. Alexander's,](http://research.uvsc.edu/mcdonald/wanderweb/trans3.htm) which would make this something like "Weird is set fast... so this middle-earth each of all days aeth and falleth." 'Aeth' is clearly a slight typo; other translations have "crumbles" and "declines." The [Old English Dictionary](http://home.comcast.net/~modean52/oeme_dictionaries.htm) has "fails" and "weakens."  
  
 _[T]he young perish, and the old linger_ —"The King of the Golden Hall," TTT, 154.


	41. Baggage

The hospital tents were pitched nearest the city gates, for there was much need of water, and Minas Tirith was the nearest source of it. Éothain brought them thither as swiftly as he could, though his bad leg kept them all to a slower pace than even an exceptionally weary Ranger might prefer.  
  
In silence, they walked amid the tents, where healers' urgent voices and the moans and cries of men in pain still sounded. Soon enough, they came to a tent a little apart from the others. It was small, and there were guards in the livery of the king's household and of Aldburg stationed at the entryway, their swords drawn but planted before them, with their hands upon the cross-hilts. They did not move or acknowledge their guests in the least, but let them pass within the tent, where a pair of lamps cast a pale light upon the fifteen men laid side by side within.  
  
Some were bare-faced and seemed almost to be sleeping; others were covered head to foot in cloaks, suggesting wounds so disfiguring as to grieve an onlooker. All bore their swords upon their breasts.  
  
And there at the end of one row lay a small, still form, his hands clasped upon his breast above a sword hilt. Meriadoc Brandybuck looked much as he ever had; indeed, he looked as if he might wake at any moment. But he did not move, and when Aragorn knelt and carefully lifted the edge of the cloak, he was immediately relieved of one concern.  
  
 _Bad angle, straight through the lungs,_ his healer's judgment informed him, and flinched inwardly as loss bit hard. There was no saving a man so wounded, not even were he treated immediately. He knew it, any healer who knew his trade was bound to judge likewise. There was, alas, but little comfort to be found in such knowledge. He let fall the cloak and laid his hand upon Merry's shoulder a moment, seeking to collect himself a bit. _At least it would have been swift!_  
  
"How did he come here?" Legolas' low-voiced question held a world of rage and anguish in it, but before Aragorn could reply, Éothain spoke up.  
  
"The Lady gave him into my care at Dunharrow the morning the Grey Company left," he answered.  
  
"And you decided to bring him with you?" The rage deepened, and above him, Éothain hastened to reply:  
  
"Nay, lord—the Lady gave him to me. 'Twas my task to find a place for him with us where the Marshal would not find him."  
  
" _Éowyn_ commanded this?"  
  
"Yes, lord," Éothain replied, even more warily now, recognizing the tone of injured betrayal. "She said Master Brandybuck wished to go to Minas Tirith, and that she had promised to aid him, whether her brother and uncle would or no."  
  
"I see," the Elf said flatly, and Aragorn stifled a sigh as he rose.  
  
"Legolas," he said quietly, in an effort to forestall a futile dispute, "we've more pressing business than arguing 'oughts.'"  
  
"And I thought you were done with business for the day," Legolas shot back.  
  
"The day apparently decided otherwise. Captain," Aragorn asked, turning toward the man, "what can you tell us?"  
  
"Little, I fear," Éothain said and grimaced. "The fell beast came down like a hawk on a hare and sent our horses into a panic. My lad was always quick on his feet—he got the bit in his teeth and bolted 'til an Orc thought to put a pike in his way. By the time I rejoined the host, Théoden King had already sent men to take Éomer up to the gates at least, 'til he could bring him to the Citadel." The captain's voice tightened. "They said then that of the Marshal's guard, none lived, save those who had been borne away by their horses."  
  
"But if you knew this, then why had we heard nothing of Merry until now?" Legolas demanded then. Aragorn gave his friend a frown, but Éothain took no offense, seeming rather more weary and regretful than aught else.  
  
"Had there been a body to tell of, you would have been told, lord prince," the captain replied heavily. "But there was none, 'til lately."  
  
"What do you mean?" the Elf pressed, and Aragorn laid a warning hand upon his shoulder, only to have it shrugged off irritably as Legolas awaited an answer.  
  
"'Tis as I said, lord," Éothain explained, "my charge was to see Master Brandybuck to Gondor, in despite of the Marshal—there were only five of us who knew he was with us. Three rode further back in the column once the attack began; they are all junior Riders, and were assigned to gather bodies to the fires when all was done. Then there was the lad Meriadoc rode with, Greta, and myself, and we rode with the Marshal's guard.  
  
"I was told all were slain, and I thought your Master Brandybuck must have been discovered among them, and that you must have been given the news," Éothain replied steadily. "I never thought to ask how many had been found, for with Éomer dead, I had his command to settle, and especially when I heard from Greta's companions that their friend had come not back, there seemed to be no purpose in asking further.  
  
"'Twas not 'til I went finally myself to pay my respects to the fallen of Éomer's guard, and found _neither_ Greta nor Master Brandybuck among them, that I had reason to ask after them. 'Twas then I found that Greta lived still, but that no one had seen Master Brandybuck nor knew to miss him."  
  
Éothain paused then, and his gaze went from Legolas to Aragorn, as he said, "For my part in this, my lords, I apologize, but I did not see that I could refuse the task assigned me. And I own I likely ought to have sent word to Théoden King or Lord Elfhelm to speak to you about the matter, but I thought that if one had lived, perhaps another might if we moved swiftly, and that questions and answers would take overmuch time.  
  
"For I remembered how you appeared to us that day we met beneath the downs," he said, and gestured to the cloaks both Aragorn and Legolas still wore. "Meriadoc had such a mantle, I recalled, and by torchlight I thought it might take long to find him. So I took a few lads who stood hard by and we rode out to the place where the fell beast lay, where Éomer and all his men were found. There we searched for any sign of a hobbit's passage, though we would have missed him, save that one of the lads thought the Witch-king's hauberk lay a little strangely."  
  
"He was beneath the Witch-king?" Aragorn said, a little incredulously.  
  
"In a manner of speaking, lord. Of the Witch-king, there is naught but the armor and the robes and the crown left, but he lay flat beneath them. Must've been right behind him, though how anyone could come so close..." Éothain shook his head, staring down at Merry, and there was wonder upon that bluff, bland countenance for once. "Fifteen men about my lord Marshal—good men all, the best of us—and not one but him got a blow in on the Wraith-lord. He should lie with the Marshal for that!"  
  
"He should lie in Dunharrow," Legolas muttered, and Aragorn closed his eyes a moment against the temptation to snap at his friend, who, after all, must ache for this death as much as he did himself.  
  
After a moment, he opened his eyes once more, and spoke to Éothain again. "You have our thanks, Captain, for all that you have done for our friend." The captain accepted this with an inclination of his head. "Are there couriers at hand who can take a message to Harlond?"  
  
"Aye, lord," Éothain replied.  
  
"Send one thither, then, and tell him to ask for news of Halbarad and of Peregrin Took," he instructed, and ignored the piercing elven eyes that fixed upon him at these words. "If Peregrin is there and well enough for it, have the man bring him to our camp. As for Halbarad, I'll settle for word of his condition."  
  
"As you wish, sire," the captain said, and turned and began to make his halting way out before Aragorn stopped him.  
  
"Your pardon, Éothain, I am not thinking. You have lost your lord and gained a command and ought to take some rest. Legolas," Aragorn glanced over at the Elf, "since you seem unlikely to wish to rest in the near future, then if you would, get you to Harlond, or at least to the couriers. Please."  
  
Legolas gave him a long look, then nodded abruptly. "We will speak of this later," he warned in Sindarin as he departed. That left Aragorn alone with Éomer's erstwhile second in command, and Éothain, gruff and dour captain that he was, nevertheless sighed and pushed a hand through tangled blond hair ere he said:  
  
"In truth, sleep would be welcome about now. Thank you, sire."  
  
"There is no need. Although, answer a question more for me, if you would," Aragorn said then, after a moment's reflection. And when Éothain quirked a brow, he continued, "You said that the Rider you had assigned to handle Merry—Greta, I think—lived still. Might he be able to say more of the battle?"  
  
"I doubt it," Éothain replied, grimly. "I did ask after him, and the healers said they did not deem it likely he would wake, though his wounds themselves are not mortal. But some fell influence lingers, and he weakens, though they know not why."  
  
"It grieves me to hear it, but perhaps he need not perish yet," Aragorn replied, and gripped the other man's shoulder, steering the captain out of the tent. And at Éothain's startled look, said, "I shall inquire and see whether there is aught I might do for him. Those who pass beneath a Ringwraith's shadow often suffer for it, but the Black Breath can be lifted."  
  
"'T'would be good if it could be. The lad's a trial with that mouth of his and his curiosity, but he has a stout heart for all of it," Éothain declared, then stumbled a bit on some stone or dip in the field, hissing in pain as his injured leg buckled, so that Aragorn hastened to steady him. The captain shook his head sharply, then grunted, "Think I ought to see about that rest now, sire."  
  
"No doubt. Go carefully. And I do thank you, for all your care of Merry," Aragorn said softly. Éothain bowed slightly in wordless reply, then limped away down the row of tents in search of his own bedroll. Aragorn stood a moment where he was, pressing a hand over eyes that burned, and not merely with exhaustion. But there was nothing to be done for Merry, whereas his companion might not be beyond hope. With a sigh, he lowered his hand, blinked a bit to clear the blur from his sight, and then made his way back towards the tents and well-lit circles where the healers worked.  
  
Fortunately, he had no trouble finding the lad. "That young Rider Captain Éothain brought in not so long ago?" the journeyman healer replied to his question. "Aye, he is with the black watch, lord."  
  
"Have you any hot water to spare? Even a cup would do," Aragorn asked.  
  
"Aye, a moment, sire," the man replied, and raised a hand, signaling a pair of very young, black-haired boys in pages' livery, apparently on loan from the City to fetch and carry for the healers. One of them nodded and hurried off towards one of the fire pits.  
  
"He ought to be back soon, and when he does, just you ask him to take you to the black watch, and he shall show you. There should be another lad there who can tell you which is Greta." So saying, the healer left him to return to his work. The boy did, indeed, come swiftly back, bearing carefully with him a wooden bowl that steamed.  
  
"Here you are, sir," the boy said, and Aragorn gave him a nod as he accepted the bowl.  
  
"Thank you, lad. The healer said you know where the black watch is. Can you take me there?"  
  
"Aye, sir," he replied and began leading him towards the edge of the healers' encampment.  
  
The men deemed incurable, yet whose condition was such that mercy was not required to speed their release from suffering, were kept on what was called the black watch. Usually one of the younger healers would be assigned to hold vigil there, to mark their passing and see that the bodies were sent to the fires, or to act should a man's condition change, so that either poppy or a knife were needed. Otherwise, the men on the black watch were cleaned as best as could be managed and allowed to rest undisturbed until their time came.  
  
The presence of the boys from the City, however, freed the healers from the vigil, at least, if not from the unhappy duties of mercy. There were two boys sitting close together by a pair of lamps, huddled in their cloaks. As they approached, Aragorn's young guide hailed them, and the two looked up, then made haste to rise, tugging their tunics straight.  
  
"Sir," one of them, the taller of the two, said quickly, then gazed up at him uncertainly.  
  
"Do either of you know which of the men here was with Lord Éomer's company?" Aragorn asked. "He was brought in not long ago, by Captain Éothain. His name is Greta."  
  
"Oh, aye, sir. Ingar, you wait, I'll show him," the taller boy said, and his companion nodded, seeming all too happy to leave the task to his friend. "This way, sir."  
  
The lad led him straight through the rows of silent, still men, heading for the bedrolls near the back, some of which were unused. At length, he paused by one of them, and indicated its occupant.  
  
"He is the one you want," the boy said, holding his lamp up so that light fell upon the wounded man's face. Young it was, and marred by a slash that had taken the fellow's eye, to judge by the bandaging. And even in this deathlike repose, he seemed troubled, uneasy, and when Aragorn knelt and laid the back of one hand upon his cheek, he felt the fever. Greta moaned and muttered something incoherent, twitching slightly.  
  
"He's been like that since they brought him," the boy volunteered. "Every so often, he'll moan and cry out. We thought he must be better, or needing something the first time it happened, but the Rohirrim came and said it was babbling."  
  
"Well, perhaps we shall get something more from him," Aragorn murmured, then glanced over at the boy and raised a brow. "How are you, lad? Can you stay here and keep that lantern over us both for a time?"  
  
"Aye, I can. Ingar doesn't like this duty, but I was working for the healers in the surgery, up in the Houses in the Seventh Circle," the lad replied, and gave him a look grave beyond his years, as he explained: "The men here don't scream."  
  
"What is your name, lad?"  
  
"Bergil, son of Beregond of the guard, sir," he replied, and drew himself up a bit, and despite his grief and weariness, Aragorn could not but smile, recognizing the pride in the lad's voice.  
  
"Bergil, son of Beregond?" he asked. The boy nodded, and Aragorn held out a hand, which the lad grasped readily enough. "Aragorn, son of Arathorn, a Ranger of the North," he replied, then pressed his hand a little harder. "Now listen a moment: there is a thing I must do, and it may seem... odd. But stay you here, do not let the light waver, and see that I am not disturbed for a time. Can you do that?"  
  
"Aye, sir. Can you really heal him?"  
  
"I believe so," Aragorn replied, releasing him then to attend to his latest patient. _May I not be proved wrong!_ Gathering himself, banishing weariness from his mind, he reached and took the young man's face in his hands, drew a deep breath. And as he let it out, he let himself go as well...  
  
... into a chaotic whirl of darkness and dreams. Fragments of them. Shards of memory. And shards indeed—a cutting, tearing pressure on the mind to drive a soul from its hold on the world. Images boiled all about, wavering as a Nazgûl's cry rang out in memory, and there was the pounding—heart or hoofs or both, and breath that wouldn't catch, wouldn't come, and the Shadow—!  
  
 _I'm dying._  
  
"Greta?" Aragorn called after that wondering, terrified voice.  
  
 _Éomer! My lord!_ Sword-fire in the night—a glitter of blade that seemed to cut for just a moment through the Darkness that had fallen.  
  
"Greta!" He cast out again, for the lad was close, he could feel him—and then flinched and cried out himself as pure white agony burned across his face, like ice. The world seemed to shatter, breaking into dreams that fluttered like ravens, black wings closing in all about him, all about him... all about _them_!  
  
For there in the heart of this darkness, he caught a glimpse of him—thin and weak, insubstantial as a shadow at noon. "Take my hand, lad! Greta, reach!" The other's form wavered, shrank from him. "Greta, take my hand, or you perish here." Still, the other held back, and in the swirl of sharp-winged nightmares, Aragorn could feel his own hold on the world beyond slackening. "I cannot linger, lad—take my hand. Now!"  
  
Something in his plea must have moved the lad, for the other stretched out a tentative hand. Fingers like smoke brushed Aragorn's palm, and Aragorn grasped and pulled the other close, gasping a little at the pain and terror that leached off him. But far gone as he was, there was no resistance in the boy as Aragorn began their retreat—  
  
—and the next thing he was aware of, beyond the blur of fevered, horrific dreams, was an insistent voice in his ear, and the wrench of another mind that seized upon him even as he had seized on Greta, and a glow that solidified into a pair of hands upon his shoulders...  
  
"Aragorn!" Legolas said urgently, his grip tightening. "Valar, you are too weary for this! Aragorn—do you hear me?"  
  
"I hear you," Aragorn replied, rather shortly as he shook himself out of the last vestiges of Greta's dreams, nerves tingling still, and the world went grey and blurry for a moment. He blinked, then again, and shivered slightly as a dull ache settled behind his eyes. But that would keep for a little while at least. Before him, Legolas let out a sigh and an oath as he let his hands fall.  
  
At the same time, the light wavered a bit as Bergil shifted the lamp to his other hand. "He said he could help you, sir," the boy said, gesturing to Legolas. "I'm sorry if I did wrong. But is he better?" Bergil gazed wide-eyed down at Greta, who was lying quietly. Aragorn gave the boy a weary half-smile, and replied:  
  
"Let us wake him and ask."  
  
"Aragorn—"  
  
"Later, Legolas," he said, ere the other could finish, intent once more upon his aim. Earlier that evening, he had replenished his supply of _athelas_ from the store kept by the Grey Company before going to work with the healers. Now he withdrew a few leaves from his scrip and reached for the bowl of water. The water had cooled somewhat, but was still warm enough to serve, and so he bruised the leaves and cast them into it. After a moment, a sharp, clean scent seeped outward, stealing through the air, like Imladris' pines on the edge of autumn.  
  
"Smells like grandfather's rose garden," Bergil said, sounding delighted as he sniffed. Aragorn chuckled softly, then lifted Greta's head a bit and held the bowl beneath his face.  
  
"Wake, Greta—come home to us!"  
  
Nothing seemed to happen for a moment, but then the lad stirred slightly, and he breathed in deep of a sudden, like a diver come to surface. " _Éomer-hlaford?_ " he murmured, voice unsteady and thick with confusion. The eye that had not a bandage over it opened slowly, and Greta blinked, then squinted a bit, raising a trembling hand. Aragorn set the bowl aside and grasped it, squeezing firmly. " _Láttéowa?_ "  
  
"That is a tale for later, lad. How do you feel?" he asked, falling easily into Rohirric once more.  
  
"Head hurts," the other whispered and winced slightly. Then his brow furrowed. "Why can I not...?" His question trailed off as the other hand felt at the bandage over his eye, and he winced then, sucking in a sharp breath as the other eye began to tear.  
  
"Hush now, lad, you will be well, and in a little while, you shall rest. Bergil," Aragorn said and nodded in the direction of the surgery tents, "go fetch a healer and a pair of lads with a stretcher—tell them they have one here by mistake, and that he is in pain."  
  
"Yes, sir!" Bergil turned and began pelting down the row, then stopped abruptly, apparently struck by a thought. He returned quickly and set the lantern down beside them, then with a grin, resumed his headlong dash.  
  
As soon as he was out of earshot, Legolas spoke again, though in his own tongue, mindful of Greta's presence. "You nearly lost him. And yourself," he said reprovingly.  
  
"I know I did. And I thank you for your help at the end. But this was necessary," Aragorn replied.  
  
"Necessary? Why? You might have waited 'til tomorrow at least!"  
  
"Mayhap. But that might have been too late—he was nearly gone by the time I found him," he said.  
  
"And you were on the brink of losing your anchor here when I found you!" Legolas retorted, green eyes flashing. "You should not have done it, weary as you are! Do you think Prince Imrahil or the other captains would take kindly to losing you chasing after a dream-lost lad?"  
  
"He is safe enough now, and so am I. Legolas," he said firmly, quelling the other's protest with a look, "I know your argument—I do not dispute it. But the thing is done, and no harm has come of it. Let it be!"  
  
" _Hlaford?_ " Elf and Man both looked down at Greta, then, as the weak-voiced inquiry drew their attention from their quarrel. " _Eomer hlaford, is hé hal? Libbe hé? And... Merry?_ "  
  
Aragorn sighed softly. It appeared that Greta would not be put off from an answer, unhappy though it be. _Curious, perhaps, but not tonight,_ he thought tiredly, recalling Éothain's words. _Even so wounded, he's courage enough for concern._ And so he reached and brushed a lock of hair back from the lad's brow, then let his hand slide down to cup Greta's cheek, soothing the lad a bit before he replied, gently, "Lord Éomer and Merry won great glory this day, but they must leave it to you to celebrate it for them."  
  
"Oh." It was more a whimper than a word, and the lad's breath caught. "Oh." Tears leaked from the corners of his one good eye, and he sniffled. He looked away.  
  
"Here, take this." Legolas' voice came low and unexpectedly soft, as the Elf dug about in his scrip and came up with a handkerchief that was amazingly still clean and neatly folded at that. He tucked it into the young Rider's hand, and watched as Greta shakily used it, murmuring a rather muffled 'thank you.'  
  
All three of them fell silent then, until Bergil returned, with three men in his wake. At that point, both Legolas and Aragorn rose, Aragorn rather more slowly than was his wont, and they made way for the healers, who exclaimed over Greta before carefully moving him onto the stretcher.  
  
"Whatever you did, lord, you have our thanks," the last of the healers said, as the other two bore Greta away. Then he, too, hurried back to his charges.  
  
As soon as he had departed, Legolas snaked a hand about Aragorn's arm and said, firmly, "You need to rest, before this latest adventure finds you. Come!"  
  
This time, Aragorn did not argue, nor did he resist, but rather simply obeyed, for in truth, the strain of the day—of several days—had already found him when he had left Denethor. With nothing more to occupy him, dizzying exhaustion took hold, and his own grief threatened. He did spare a nod and brief hand on Bergil's shoulder, wordless thanks for his help, but he barely heard the boy call after them: "Good night!"  
  
Legolas was silent as they made their way back to the Rangers' camp and their tent, and despite the tension between them, Aragorn was grateful for the Elf's steadying hand. For as they walked, the ache he had been ignoring mounted in intensity, so that by the time they reached their destination, Aragorn was gritting his teeth against a splitting headache. Legolas, of course, noticed, and he shook his head as he shepherded his friend into the tent, then let the flap fall and knelt to fasten it against the night breezes.  
  
Aragorn meanwhile unbuckled his sword-belt and set that carefully aside, then pulled his boots off and managed to retrieve his bedroll from the small pile of baggage in the corner. No sooner had he shaken out the blankets and spread them upon the ground than he crawled into their midst, pulled them over himself, and shut his eyes.  
  
"Wake me an hour before dawn, Legolas," he muttered.  
  
If Legolas answered, Aragorn did not hear it: weary as he was, he was already asleep.  
  


***

As it happened, he did not need to wait for Legolas to call him. He was not certain what time it was, but it was surely several hours later when Aragorn came suddenly awake, as happened sometimes after a dream or when something disturbed him. But it was quiet in the tent; no sound of trouble reached him from without, and he could remember nothing of any dream.

"You should go back to sleep," said a low voice, nigh at hand. Hearing it, Aragorn relaxed and let slip the dagger he had reached for instinctively. Then he let his head loll to one side so he could see Legolas. The prince sat by the tent flap, his back to the canvas and his knees drawn up with his arms clasped loosely about them. "It is early still."

"What hour is it?"

"Not yet the hour before dawn," Legolas replied, a little pointedly.

Aragorn shut his eyes again experimentally, contemplating the idea of taking a little longer before rising. But after but a few moments, he sighed softly, and sat up, rubbing his face in his hands ere he folded them and cocked his head 'til he could see the Elf again at the edge of his vision. "You have not slept at all, have you?" he said, not that he needed to ask.

"I had other matters to think about."

"Such as?"

"Why it is that reasonable Men would think it wise to allow two Halflings into a battle like this, when they were safe enough where they were."

Aragorn grunted at this. After last night, the complaint was hardly unexpected; nonetheless, the idea of having to face Denethor again after an argument with Legolas was not an appealing prospect. _But better to have it done with,_ he thought, even as he threw the blankets off and grabbed his overtunic. He pulled that on, then reached for his sword-belt.

"Say on," he invited, as he buckled it, gave the cinch a tug, and then went for the boots.

"I have asked my question, I still await your answer," Legolas replied, evenly.

"It is not what I would have chosen for them, but it was not my choice to make."

"Yet you persist in making it nonetheless—at Dunharrow before Helm's Deep, at Edoras... after Moria."

"We have gone over this before, Legolas, 'twas you who begged off that exchange. And if you are so concerned about the hobbits' safety, you might have contested Elrond and Gandalf, who decided they ought to be have a place in this business of ours."

"I said not that they have no place in this struggle, but you know as well as I that this was no battle for their kind! There was no need for them to be _here_!" Legolas replied sharply.

"There was no need for them that we could foresee, I grant you that. I argued that point with Pippin at Dunharrow, you may be sure. But the need of armies is not the only kind of need in the world that must be respected," Aragorn answered.

"So you say. Yet you seek ever to thwart me and indulge them," Legolas retorted, and Aragorn sighed.

"I thought we had had done with this in Dunharrow!" He shook his head, then gestured vaguely, a wave to encompass the camp at large. "You are here, Legolas, you have surely slain enough to barrow Gimli in a hall made wholly of orcish skulls. It may profit us both for a time that you grieve him with the edge of a knife, but in the end, we are neither of us innocents—we know the end of the road you are upon," he replied, with quiet force. "Do not ask me to look gladly upon it!"

"We do know," Legolas agreed after a moment. "And if you look not gladly upon it, then the more reason to save whom you can—the hobbits had no business here!" Green eyes caught and held his a moment, ere the prince added, "You did not see Pippin last night."

For a moment, it escaped Aragorn how Pippin should have been upon the field last night, but then memory returned. _The courier, of course,_ he thought, running a hand through his hair to buy a moment's consideration. Then: "How did he seem?"

"Shattered," Legolas replied grimly. "I took him to the healers' camp, to the tent. So far as I know, he has not left his cousin's side."

Aragorn made a soft noise, sympathy, regret, and frustration mingling in it. _But there is no time for grief now, either!_ he thought. _Not yet._ And so he said, "Then you should go to him, and see that he is not alone. Give him my condolences, and I will speak with him later, when this council is over."

Legolas rose then, unfolding like a cat from its nap, and he drew his cloak about his shoulders. Then he cocked his fair head and asked, "What will you debate?"

"The next step in all of this—we need to decide the best course of action," Aragorn replied, though he gave the prince a puzzled look, for he should have thought that was clear enough.

Legolas returned it for a long moment, then glanced down at the grass. Finally: "I do not see that there is much to decide. Frodo walks in Mordor—so we hope, if we hope. His path must be clear if he is to have any chance of achieving his end. Minas Tirith stands still, but it has stood for many years and done nothing to draw our Enemy forth in all his strength. We do nothing to aid Frodo defending these walls, Aragorn." He glanced up as he spoke, and that fey, fearful smile touched his lips, twisted his mouth. "And aiding Frodo changes nothing in the end. It is as I have said since Rohan—all is decided. You and the others have but to follow, and follow you shall the path already set, however you go upon it. Good day."

With that, the Prince departed, leaving Aragorn to stare after him a moment. At length, though, he shook his head. "Go not to the Elves, indeed!" he muttered, and then went on to his morning ablutions.

***

It was nearly dawn—the first dawn Minas Tirith had seen in nearly a week. As the sun peeked over the Ephel Dúath, Pippin stood at the edge of the healers' camp, watching as men went to and fro on their rounds. It seemed very busy still, for all the battle had been done for hours and hours, and he hesitated, uncertain where to go or who to speak to, and he certainly did not wish to bother anyone who might be needed badly elsewhere.

At length, however, a pair of men appeared who seemed less hurried than the others. One of them noticed him standing there, and touched his older companion's arm, then pointed and said somewhat. The older man's gaze fell upon him, and then the man laid a hand on his younger colleague's shoulder and began striding purposefully towards Pippin.

"Are you one of the lads from the City?" he asked Pippin, in reasonably clear Westron.

"Me, sir? No, I came with St—Aragorn," Pippin replied, and at the other's slightly skeptical look, added: "I'm Peregrin Took—one of the _holbytla_."

At that, the man's face lit with recognition. "Forgive me, I had not seen you before, only heard the tales," he replied. "How may I help? Are you hurt?"

Pippin had lightly reassured Halbarad he had nothing more than scraped knees and shins when they had waited for the healer upon the field. Which he had, and which were quite sore, not to mention black and blue where there was still skin, and he had a bit of a lump on the back of his head from getting tripped over in the battle.

"'Tis naught serious," one of the healers at Harlond had told him, and Pippin had given Halbarad, who had insisted the man check him, a triumphant look.

And it wasn't serious. If ever he had felt inclined to complain of such ills, the news the messenger had brought last night had quelled it. And so in response to the healer's inquiry, he shook his head and replied, "No, I don't need a healer. I was looking for someone, but I don't know where to find him."

"I imagine you seek Greta, the lad who found his way into Lord Éomer's guard—the one who bore Master Brandybuck with him, as I hear it?" the man guessed, and Pippin nodded, biting his lip against the quaver, and he ducked his head, blinking hard. A warm hand engulfed his shoulder, and he looked up to see the healer give him a kindly smile, as he said:

"'Tis all right, lad. But I must ask: why do you wish to see him?"

"I just wanted to thank him for taking care of Merry on the way here, and to hear what happened. But I promise," Pippin said hastily, "I shan't badger him about it."

The healer considered this a moment, then nodded. "Very well. I shall take you to him. Come, Master Took."

"Thank you," Pippin replied, and began to follow him. The healer called something to his friend, who gave a nod and then made off on his own. "I'm sorry to be a bother..." Pippin began, but the other shook his head.

"Nay, it is no trouble. We are at the end of our shift, and I shall follow him soon. Besides, it would be good, I deem, for Greta to have someone to sit with him awhile."

"So... you do know him, sir?" Pippin asked, glancing up at the man.

"Aye, I was called to treat him last night—we thought he would die, but Lord Ælric—" Pippin frowned, momentarily thrown off by the name, 'til he recalled how the Rohirrim had called Aragorn "was able to help him, I know not how." The healer gave him a searching look then, and said: "I should warn you, Master Took, for I do not know how much experience you have of such things: men who are newly scarred and disfigured, as Greta is, often are very ill-tempered. Do not let him unsettle you too much. And if you can help it, do not stare."

"I shall try not to," Pippin promised.

The healer brought him then to a pallet where a young man lay sleeping, a clean bandage bound about his head and over his left eye, and new stitches all along the same cheek. "He ought to wake soon—the effects of the poppy we gave him should wear off. Should you need help, call for it," the man said. "Good morning, Master Took."

"Good morning. And thank you," Pippin replied, gazing after the man, who hurried to rejoin his companion, leaving Pippin in the midst of the makeshift ward. But after a moment, a soft moan drew his attention from the retreating healer to the Rider lying before him.

The sun was coming up, and pale golden rays cut through the ashy air. It made the young man seem very pale, his skin seeming nearly transparent, and his good eye shut the tighter as he winced and reached up with one hand, shielding his face from the light a bit. He whimpered.

"Should I fetch a healer for you?" Pippin asked, feeling his stomach clench sympathetically at that pained, frightened sound.

To his surprise, at the sound of his voice, the Rider went paler still, and with what seemed a great effort of will, he forced his eye open and gazed up at Pippin, squinting. "M-merry?" he asked, voice strained and incredulous.

"No, Pippin," he replied quickly. "Merry is—was—my cousin."

The lad's face fell, but he grunted softly, and murmured, "His cousin. Of course." Then he winced again and shut his eye, which was tearing up.

"Should I go find someone for you?" Pippin asked again, worriedly.

"No. I'm fine." Which was a patent lie, but Greta hurried on to ask: "Why have you come?"

"I just thought," Pippin replied, after a moment, "you might want some company." _For of a certainty, I do!_

Last night, when Pippin had arrived at Aragorn's tent, and been told the bad news by a frightfully grave Legolas, he almost had not believed it.

"But he can't be—that is, he _has_ to be all right!" Pippin had protested. And he had waited for the prince to shake himself out of whatever strange dreams Elves dreamt and tell him it was a mistake, that he had said the wrong name or meant "hurt" instead of "dead." Something. Anything.

"I'm sorry, Pippin, did I say 'Merry'? I was dreaming before you came and it slipped out wrongly." They would have been welcome words, and Pippin might even have forgiven him if Legolas had said he had been playing some morbid prank on him. But none of that had happened.

"Come, I shall take you to him," Legolas had said, and been as good as his word. And he had even withdrawn quietly, without protest, when Pippin had asked him to leave. Pippin had sat in that tent for most of the night, there among the dead, and he had held Merry's hand and wept and pleaded and probably confessed to twenty years of unacknowledged guilt for various acts of hitherto unclaimed mischief. There had been darker things, too—fears and failures conceived along the long road from the Shire to Gondor, which he had not told anyone of, not even Merry, and which had come pouring out, as if to say it would make up, somehow, for having not been there. For having been somewhere else, with someone else, just in time for another, and far, far too late for Merry.

And when all of that had got no reply, Pippin had sat in silence, staring blankly down at his cousin in a kind of stupor, unable to weep, unable to speak, unable to bear the stillness of Merry's face, yet unable to leave. He had actually fallen asleep there, worn out from the day's deeds and griefs.

Later (he knew not how many hours later) he had awakened with a start, terrified, and found himself alone in the dark, with only the memory that before him lay the dead. He had gone cold to the tips of his toes, and every hair had stood on end, as all of a sudden, their spiritless company had struck him with horror, as if he were back riding the Paths of the Dead: in the dark, alone with them, spirits without bodies, bodies without souls. He had nearly thrown up.

He had scrambled to depart them, though he had recalled just in time the presence of the guards outside the tent. One of them must have come in and taken down the lantern while Pippin slept, thinking no others would come so late, and that perhaps Pippin might appreciate it. Later, it had occurred to him to wonder if Legolas had had an unnoticed word with them about leaving him be on his way out. Whatever the case, he did manage to stop himself before he fled out into the camp at large, and had departed at a determinedly dignified pace.

After that, he had gone back to the Gondorian camp, and wandered aimlessly for a time, not really thinking about anything. At length, he had drawn nigh to Aragorn's tent, wondering if he might join his friends and sleep warm for awhile, but the two muffled voices—Legolas' and Aragorn's, both speaking Sindarin—had put him off after but a short while spent listening. And so he had returned to the healer's encampment, remembering then that Legolas had spoken of a Rider who had carried Merry through to the last battle. A young Rider, who lay now wounded in the healers' care. And for whatever reason, it had got into his head then that if he desired better company than the dead, he need look no further.

Now, looking down at the Rider, who was gazing at him in pained incomprehension, he had cause to question that notion. "Why would you want to keep me company?" Greta asked, hoarsely.

"I... it's no good being alone right now, and the others are... busy, I think. I miss Merry, but I can't bear to be about him anymore. And I thought you might be wanting for someone other than healers," he said, and felt his cheeks heat. He sighed. "I'm sorry, I'm not making much sense!"

"I am sorry that I did not save your cousin, Master Took," came the whispered response, after a long moment of silence. Pippin blinked in surprise.

"Sorry?" he repeated, and got a faint nod, which was brought up a bit short by a wince.

"My horse threw us, and I felt him fall away. But I didn't look for him. I saw my lord Éomer and that... thing... and everything went right out of my head. I don't even know... I'm not even sure what I did anymore, but it didn't end very well," he said, his voice trailing off into a quiet, cut off whimper, teeth baring in a rictus of anguish. He sucked in a breath between his teeth, and forced the rest out: "But I was supposed to look out for Merry, and I didn't. And I didn't even save my lord, either!"

"Are you all right? You really don't look well," Pippin said, not willing to trust himself with a response to this speech yet, but certainly the other seemed rather green about the gills. The tearing of his one good eye was now definitely tears, and Greta raised a hand. But not to wipe at them—rather, he held it above his face, almost as if to hide himself.

"It's just the light," he managed, tightly. And: _Of course,_ Pippin realized after a moment's thought; _it hurts his eyes._ Obligingly, he shifted so that his shadow fell across the Rider's face. "My thanks," Greta murmured, letting his arm fall once more, as he explained, shortly: "Never thought it would hurt this much!"

"Are you sure I shouldn't fetch you a healer to give you something for it?" Pippin asked, worriedly.

"No!" came the emphatic reply. Then Greta swallowed hard, and murmured, "If I sleep, I may dream of... _him_."

 _Him._ Pippin, remembering the hasty journey from Weathertop, in constant fear of the Riders not far behind, shivered in kindred horror, and replied, sympathetically, "I know what you mean!"

They were silent for a little while, each preoccupied with his own thoughts. Pippin, watching his unfortunate companion, thought about his words, turning them over in his mind a bit. At length, he said quietly, "It's not your fault, you know, about Merry dying. Strider told us this wasn't our sort of battle, but we came anyway. We'd been lucky all along—catching on to Cousin Frodo's plan in time, missing those Ringwraiths all the way from Hobbiton to Rivendell, and getting off Caradhras in a snowstorm. And it never was us, before—Gandalf went first, and then Boromir... Gimli. I suppose... I suppose it was about time luck caught up with us," he concluded, and dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve as he sniffled a bit. He sighed.

"So you see, it wasn't your fault. You were lucky, that's all. Merry wasn't, and neither was Éomer. Lot of bad luck lately. But it's not you or me who's to blame for it. I'm not angry with you, certainly," he said, sincerely, and looked anxiously at the young Rider, hoping he understood.

And perhaps he did. Greta was silent for a little longer, then reached out a hand. Pippin took it, and the young man squeezed tightly. "Do you think," Greta asked, "that you could stay and talk to me? It would help keep my mind off things."

"Of course, if you like. What should I talk about?" Pippin asked, and got a slight shrug.

"Girls, horses, races—anything you like! Just something to listen to," he replied. Pippin frowned, considering his choices. And then he began to grin.

"Why don't I tell you about the best mushroom farm in all the Shire?"

"Mushrooms?" Even wounded and in pain, Greta sounded skeptical.

"Oh yes. If there's a treasure in the Shire, it's mushrooms. You have no idea 'til you've had them properly served, but once you have, you'll understand why so many went to such lengths to steal them. Which is where the dogs come into it, and, if I may say so myself, one of the more ingenious plots ever to fail to get past them," Pippin declared.

 _Forgive me, Frodo,_ he thought across the leagues to the worst young rascal in Buckland, for despite what must have been a fierce headache indeed, Greta looked intrigued. _I'll make it up to you somehow for telling about this!_ "You see, the Marish is famous for its mushrooms, but especially the Maggots' farm..."

While the sun rose, and the camp came slowly to life, and lords convened upon the field, Pippin sat and spun tales of the Shire, and the derring-do of friends and cousins (and himself, of course) in pursuit of mischief. Greta was not the only one who listened, either—men laid close by sometimes would chuckle, if painfully, and once or twice even interjected a question. The healer who came by on his rounds even seemed pleased—pleased enough that a little while after his departure, a boy came up bearing porridge and some bread and cheese for Pippin.

"Master Æscher said you should eat something," the lad said. "And he says all of you had better listen so he can hear the rest when he comes back on rounds later," he added, addressing the wounded.

"Will do," Greta murmured, and managed a faint smile, while Pippin managed a 'thank you' around a mouthful of bread.

"Are you staying on for a bit, lad?" Pippin asked, and the youngster shook his head.

"No, I have to go. The healers want us to get a count now of everyone who is still here," he replied.

"What for?"

"I don't know. Something's going on, though," the boy volunteered, then darted away to his chore.

"I wonder what that's about," Pippin mused aloud.

"Likely nothing," said one of the men, who had a poultice on a wound to his leg, but who seemed more sick than aught else. "Had to count us sometime to know how many they can put on the watches."

"Anyone heard if Marshal Elfhelm's lads have come in yet?" another asked, and then repeated it in Rohirric. This got some muttered replies, and though Pippin did not understand any of it, he got the impression that no one knew anything about Elfhelm's company.

"Elfhelm split his _éored_ up, sent some to guard the neck of the pass into Stonewain Valley," Greta explained quietly. "There were Orcs on our trail. A lot of Orcs."

"Oh," Pippin said, his mood suddenly quenched and subdued once more. _More battles. More death._ "It feels like this war should be over already!"

Greta managed a faint smile, though there was a hardness to his voice that belied his years as he replied, "It might have been over yesterday. Long may it last!"

Which was one way of looking at it, Pippin supposed, though he did not care for it at all. _It can't last long—Frodo has to come to Mt. Doom sooner than that,_ he thought, and cast an anxious look over his shoulder towards the east. Because if Frodo did not, then, as Greta had intimated, things might end all too soon, even war...

"I see I need not have worried," said a new voice just then, and Pippin looked up to see Legolas standing just a little ways off, having, it seemed, appeared from thin air. The elven prince gave him a slight smile that did not quite lighten his eyes, as he explained, "Trust a hobbit to find a meal!"

"Legolas," Pippin replied, standing and wiping his hands on his pants, feeling, as ever, just slightly disheveled in the Elf's presence, never mind that even Legolas looked as though he could benefit from a washroom and a proper brush. "Were you looking for me?"

"Aye, I was. I thought you would be... elsewhere. And then I could find no one who had seen you, and feared you had become lost in the camp somewhere," he replied.

"I'm sorry," Pippin said contritely. "I did mean to go back to the tent, but..." He shrugged, not wanting to admit in front of others that he had, but had departed unannounced for being unwilling to interrupt what had seemed an argument.

"You should have found it filled with Gondor's council, had you tried," Legolas said, and gave a one-shouldered shrug. "'Tis well enough—I thought to look here before I set out for Harlond, where no doubt if I had inquired of Halbarad, he should have badgered his way out of bed to look for you."

"Is he all right?" Pippin asked, and received another shrug.

"I know no more than you told me last night," he replied. "I suppose that he is. But come—when I made my way back from searching the camp perimeter, I saw King Théoden and Lord Denethor walking towards the City. That means the council has concluded and our course is decided. And I know Aragorn wished to see you."

"Very well, I shall come in a moment. Let me say my good-byes," Pippin replied, and set aside his by now empty bowl of porridge. He crept close and laid a small hand upon Greta's arm, and the young man laid one of his own sword-callused ones atop it. "I'll come back later to see how you are, and maybe if you like, I can finish the last story."

"I would like that. Thank you, Pippin. For everything," he said, meaningfully, and Pippin felt his face heat once more.

"It's only fair. Thank you for taking care of my cousin," he replied, and smiled sadly. He rose then, and waved to the others, who bade him farewell. Turning then to Legolas, he said, "Let's go see what's to be done."

The elven prince nodded, and they departed together, Legolas gliding along at a short enough stride that Pippin could keep up easily. In silence, they made their way back, and Pippin darted anxious glances up at his taller companion, who seemed for once not to notice, wrapped up in his own thoughts.

At length, they came to their tent, and Legolas ducked within, despite the sound of voices. Pippin followed in time to see Aragorn look up from a conversation with one of his Rangers. Yes, no doubt about it, he thought, something was up between him and Legolas, given how they looked at each other. Not that they glared, but he could feel a certain tension between them. Then Aragorn looked away, continuing the discussion. It lasted but a little longer anyway, ere he dismissed the man with a brief hand upon the shoulder, and the Ranger nodded to Legolas and Pippin on his way out.

"So?" Legolas said, as soon as he was gone. Aragorn sighed.

"So," he replied, and glanced from him to Pippin and back again; "We leave for the Black Gate the day after tomorrow."

* * *

  
  
  
**Notes** :  
  
"Go not to the Elves, indeed!"—'Go not to the Elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes,' "Three is Company," FOTR, 83.  
  
"[T]he worst young rascal in Buckland"—"A Short Cut to Mushrooms," FOTR, 91. Actually, Frodo is merely _one_ of the worst young rascals in Buckland, but Pippin has poetic license.  
  
 **Translations** :  
  
 _Éomer-hlaford?_ : Lord Éomer?  
  
 _Láttéowa?_ : Marshal? (Actually, "General," since there is no word for 'marshal' at the [Old English Dictionary](http://home.comcast.net/~modean52/index.htm), nor in the index to Sweet's _Anglo-Saxon Primer_.)  
  
 _Eomer-hlaford, is hé hal? Libbe hé? And... Merry?_ : Is Lord Éomer well? Does he live? And... Merry?


	42. Accounting for East and West

"The Black Gate?" Pippin repeated, a bit blankly as the import (and the horror) sank in.  
  
Meanwhile, Legolas was saying: "How many will march?"  
  
"Not many. This is a diversion, not a serious challenge, as well you know, and we must hope that the Dark Lord takes the bait we offer him," Aragorn replied. "From among the men brought north from the southern fiefs, Denethor's City Guard, and the Rohirrim, we ought to be able to raise six thousand. I will not take more, for there are other tasks we may set them to."  
  
"Such as?" Legolas demanded.  
  
"Holding the city, should Sauron send his armies across the river to try Minas Tirith again, for one. And for the other, we want as many who may be able to fight another day, if given the time, to have that day. The wounded for whom there is hope and any remaining men we can spare must therefore depart, and go either south or west, for Minas Tirith will not withstand a second siege, and there will be no one to break it."  
  
"And should the City fall?"  
  
"Then command passes south—that has long been known in Gondor. The Council is headed by the Prince and his heirs in the absence of the Steward. Legolas," Aragorn said, his voice hardening a bit, "I do not believe there is much more to concern you, but I will ask you one question: will you come?"  
  
The Elf smiled faintly, the fey gleam lighting his green eyes. "I will," he replied. Then: "I have brought Pippin. I shall take my leave." And with that, he turned and walked out. Pippin shivered as he passed, reaching without thought to hug himself against this news that raised gooseflesh upon his arms. _The Black Gate... and Legolas glad to go to it!_ Of a sudden, it was as if he were standing once more upon the Paths of the Dead.  
  
"Pippin," Aragorn's voice pierced his unhappy reverie, and it was much softer now, as the Ranger sank down to kneel before him. Grey eyes looked him up and down for hurt, and then he said: "How do you feel this morn?"  
  
"Sort of cold all over, inside and out," Pippin replied, truthfully.  
  
"I am sorry about Merry. If it helps, I doubt he felt much."  
  
Pippin shivered again. "I'm not sure... um, maybe we could not talk about what happened too closely, Strider? He's gone. That's all that matters."  
  
Aragorn gave him one of his intent stares, but then nodded. "As you wish. Do you want for anything?"  
  
"No, thank you, I've been seen to. The Rohirrim fed me breakfast, and a couple of us kept each other company. That boy who rode with Merry—Greta—we talked a bit. Seems a nice lad. I told him stories since his head was hurting him," Pippin replied. He was babbling now, and he knew it, but in the face of Aragorn's concern and the recent announcement of their new destination, it helped steady him.  
  
"That was kind of you. I fear he suffers from the knowledge of what he could not prevent."  
  
"He was feeling rather guilty. But I think he'll be all right. W-will he be one of the ones going home, Strider?" Pippin asked.  
  
"Aye. Now that the Morgul-spell and Black Breath have no more hold on him, he is in little danger. He will not shoot a bow again, most likely, but he could, if needed, swing a sword," Aragorn replied.  
  
"That's good news, then. Are we really going to the Black Gate?"  
  
"Yes, we are," Aragorn said steadily.  
  
"And we're leaving the day after tomorrow?" This time, the other simply nodded. "I... see."  
  
Aragorn grunted. "Pippin," he said, "I sent a Ranger to the ships this morning, to see how Halbarad was faring and hear the news from the healers on our numbers. He came back with a story from Halbarad about trolls that matches very nearly with what I saw on the field yesterday. I tell you this because I wish it to be clear: I do not doubt your courage, or that you have done what many a grown and well-trained warrior could not have in that moment. Very few can claim to have slain a troll alone." Aragorn paused a moment to let that sink in. "And make no mistake: I am grateful beyond words that you saved Halbarad, and I fear I can never repay the debt."  
  
At this, Pippin shifted uncomfortably, feeling his cheeks blaze with embarrassment. "There's no call to be talking of _debts_ ," he began, but trailed off into silence before the other's look.  
  
"You may not feel so, but I am in your debt. But," he said, "that debt is not what earns you the question I will ask. 'Tis the same as I asked of Legolas, and you have earned it, in word and deed. Will you go east with us?"  
  
 _Will I go?_ Pippin asked himself, turning it over in his mind. And he wondered at himself a bit, for he thought he likely ought to say 'yes' immediately. _Isn't this what I wanted?_ he demanded of himself. _Didn't I want to go with Frodo, even to the very end? And isn't this as close as I'm likely to get? And I fought not to be left behind!_ So why was 'yes' not coming?  
  
Aragorn, at least, did not seem displeased by this hesitation. "If you need time to think on it, take it. 'Tis not a decision that should come too lightly, for if you will go, you must know: there is little hope that we shall return, and that being so, we may not count upon it. It is as I told the lords of Gondor and Rohan: if we do this, it is because we must try to keep the Dark Lord's eye upon us, and not upon what moves in his own land. We must at least try to present him with a puzzle, one that will speak to his desires and his fear, if he has any. We are offering ourselves as bait, and we do not expect to live to see deliverance, should Frodo succeed."  
  
"And you're taking _how_ many men with you?" Pippin asked, trying to fathom the enormity of this gamble.  
  
"Six thousand. Very few, if you think of how many were arrayed against us even here at Minas Tirith. We will march against the very gates of Mordor, where you may be assured there are many more guarding them." Aragorn paused, then said, "Quite frankly, I would rather you rode west with the Rohirrim and the Grey Company's wounded. They would take you through the Gap and back to the Shire, where you could ready your own people, should Sauron conquer all the south and move to take Eriador as well. For you know now that hobbits are much in his mind, and would bear a great weight of wrath should he move North. Already, Rivendell and my people are under attack by Orcs who have taken the High Pass, and by trolls; the Dark Lord may not need to wait until Gondor and Rohan fall to strike out against the Shire."  
  
Which ominous pronouncement was news to Pippin, who swallowed hard. "How do you know this?" he asked.  
  
"Halbarad brought the news south with him. You should know it, for it concerns you, and if you do march east, you should know the larger state of affairs. And should you choose to accompany us, rest assured, I will send the Rangers to warn the Shire, though I know not how effective they would be, given the distrust in which we are held in the Bree-land and beyond. But," Aragorn said, "I will not command you to come. This is no ordinary battle. So take the time and think on what you would do. Tell me your decision by tomorrow night, that is all I ask."  
  
"All right. I can do that," Pippin managed. Then, thinking of concerns conceived in the night: "Can I ask you a question, Strider?"  
  
"Please," Aragorn replied.  
  
"Is Merry going to be," he drew a deep breath, and forced the word out, "burned?"  
  
"If it is your wish, then that can be done," Aragorn replied. "But Théoden King told me this morning that for those of Éomer's company who fell to the Nazgûl, he intends to have them buried together in a mound before the city gates, even if not with their horses. The Rohirrim prefer it thus. Denethor is willing that this be done, and Théoden has said already he would gladly lay Merry to rest with his people, in recognition of his deed." He paused, then said: "I told him that that seemed fitting, but if you would rather not—"  
  
"No, no, that is... that is good news. Very good," Pippin said hastily. "Is it... would it happen soon? Before anyone left the City?"  
  
"There are already a number of men working to dig the grave," Aragorn replied.  
  
"I should like to be there, that is all."  
  
"Then you shall be. And if you have no more questions, I must meet with the captains and their lieutenants to determine who will go east. And I think perhaps you could do with some rest, Pippin." It was a gentle enough suggestion, but it was as if the very word 'rest' had brought a weariness down upon him. Pippin felt Aragorn reach and steady him as he swayed a bit. His hand warm upon his shoulder, the Ranger guided him to a corner of the tent and sat him down.  
  
"I'm sorry," Pippin murmured around a sudden yawn. "You should go and speak with those captains. I can see to myself."  
  
"It's a matter of moments," came the response, and then the sound of blankets being shaken out. "Here, come lie down."  
  
Pippin obeyed, crawling onto the covers, and another blanket was laid over him. "Someone will wake you when the Rohirrim are ready. Until then, sleep if you can," Aragorn murmured.  
  
"Mmph," was Pippin's response, as his eyes drifted shut.  
  
Aragorn stood in the tent, watching him a little while longer, and then, with a soft sigh, departed.  
  


****

Several hours later, Pippin was awakened by a familiar voice calling his name and a hand upon his arm.

"Mm... Legolas?" Pippin squinted up through sleep-bleary eyes at the Elf, who was squatting on his haunches before him. "What time is it?"

"Time you rose, if you wish to join Théoden and his men for the barrowing," Legolas replied. Pippin felt his heart speed a bit at that, and he hastily stood, tugging at his clothes and running a frantic hand through his unruly hair.

"I wish you had come earlier, then! Going to a funeral like this—!" He hastily redid the buttons on his vest.

"You have some little time yet. And there is water," Legolas said, rising smoothly to go and fetch the basin and ewer.

"Are you coming, too, then?" Pippin asked, as he availed himself of it.

"Aye. Aragorn shall be there as well, and the Lord Denethor, and many Riders, as I understand it. 'Tis to honor many, after all, that this is done, and Aragorn mentioned something about a belief that the honored dead guard crossways and thresholds in Rohan. I had not heard of that, but it seems there may be some rite," the Elf said, watching as Pippin dug about in Aragorn's pack and came up eventually with a comb, which he applied with ruthless speed to try to tame the curls.

"There," he said at length, returning the borrowed item to its proper place. "I suppose I'm as presentable as can be. Shall we go?"

 

Although Legolas had warned that there might be a crowd, Pippin was not quite prepared for the press of men that had gathered by the ruined gates. The circle of Riders, shields and spears and swords quite in evidence, must have been six men deep, and it was a sizable circle. Had he known, he was looking at the better part of an _éored_ —the survivors of Éomer's regular command along with Riders representing other Eastfold levies—, a respectable honor guard drawn from Théoden's Riders and the Westfold levies, and a contingent of Gondorians from the Steward's household. There were a few grey cloaks standing with Aragorn—Grey Company Rangers, and as Legolas escorted him through the ranks, Pippin felt very small indeed.

Théoden, however, noticed him, and inclined his head slightly. Pippin bobbed a short, awkward bow in response as he went to stand beside Aragorn. At the center of the circle was a pit, and peering into it, Pippin could see a number of bodies, all of them now with their cloaks drawn over their faces. At the center lay one whose gold-bordered green cloak marked him for one of greater rank than the others, and beside him was a small, grey-shrouded figure.

 _Merry!_ Pippin swallowed past the lump in his throat, just as King Théoden stepped forward and began to speak, and for a time, Pippin listened, lost, to the Rohirric. But then the king paused, and began again, this time in Westron:

"When Béma breathed life into the world, he created the winds that flow ever over the earth. Freely they blow and bless the plains, the mountains, and all peoples, quickening the breath within us. But they remind us, too, that life is swift and cannot be long bound to mere matter.

"This day we come to honor those borne away from us to the King of Winds, to the arms of our fathers, who watch over us who remain. Let them look kindly upon this earth that they fell defending, and upon those who tend it with honor. We name them now, and commit to their guardianship the ground hallowed by their blood."

Walking then to one end of the pit, he drew his sword and stood with it hovering over one body, and declared: " _Harding Halbanessunu."_

 _"Fer thu hál!!_ " the Riders cried, and struck sword to shield, or else spear to earth. Théoden moved to the next man.

" _Ébor Ethingessunu."_

_"Fer thu hál!"_

_"Léofric Léodessunu._ "

And so it went on, call and response, until the king came to the man laid at center.

" _Sweostor-sunu mín, thridda láttéowa Éomer Éomundessunu."_

 _"Fer thu hál!_ "

And then at last, he turned to the small grey form, and looked directly at Pippin. "I must beg leave to speak more of this last one," he said, shifting suddenly once more to the Common Tongue. "For he rode unheralded among us, and perhaps to look at him, one might imagine that small stature meant less strength. But though he came among us a stranger, he stood with us as a brother, and has acquitted himself with such honor as a king could hardly hope to claim." Théoden paused a moment, then continued:

"He stood by my son, and now he shall lie by my son, for they faced the Dark Captain, and would not bend. _Meriadoc Saradocessunu thære Shiremearce."_

_"Fer thu hál!"_

_"Hier ús, Béma,_ " Théoden intoned, and then commenced, not to speak, but to sing, and within moments, all the Riders had joined him, voices rising in a swell of sound. Pippin understood not one word of it, but that scarcely mattered. It pierced the heart, and the tears came before ever they reached the refrain or the first earth was cast upon the grave, and Pippin reached blindly for the well-used handkerchief stuffed into his pocket.

He felt Aragorn and Legolas close, felt their hands upon his shoulders, and wondered whether they wept, too, but he spared them no glance. He had eyes only for the grave being steadily filled in, for there were no lack of shovels, nor of willing hands, and it went far faster than he would have imagined for so many. Though they finished in silence, the afternoon was not yet spent when at last the gravediggers stood back, and seventeen spears, one of them borne by a grim-faced Captain Éothain, were planted about the mound, one for each of those laid to rest. Then Théoden stood forth once more.

" _Thes is gedón_. It is finished," he said. " _Ferien ge hál. Ferien eall úre déathas hál."_

_"Géalágé!"_

With that, at last, the Riders began to disperse. Pippin blotted at his eyes, aware of quiet commands being given over his head, of men milling about and speaking quietly with each other, of condolences, some in Westron, some in Rohirric or very haltingly in the Common Speech. He tried to nod or make some sign to the Riders, and even Rangers, filing past. Even the Steward of Gondor offered polite consolation.

"My condolences for your loss, Master Took, my lords," he said, including Aragorn and Legolas with a look and a word.

"And to you as well, my lord steward," Aragorn replied, as Pippin and Legolas each bowed courteously. Denethor inclined his head fractionally in acknowledgment, then swept away to speak with Théoden, no doubt to say much the same. Above him, Aragorn sighed softly, but then asked: "How are you faring, Pippin?"

"I'm all right, I'll be all right," he said quickly, and blew his nose. "It was just... the singing got to me."

"As it should, for it is made for such sorrow," said a new voice, and Pippin glanced up to see Théoden standing above him. The old king gave him a sad smile, then said, apologetically, "I am sorry that I did not ask you whether there was aught to be done for your... cousin, I believe I was told. Is there anything we may do to assist you now?"

"I do not think so, sire," Pippin said, and shook his head. "But I do thank you for what you said about Merry, and for giving him a place with Lord Éomer and your Riders."

"It was my honor," Théoden said simply. Then: "I do not wish to deprive you of company, but I would speak with Aragorn and Lord Denethor about a matter. We have the tally of hale Riders from Elfhelm's _éored_ at last, and the news is better there than we had hoped when the messenger arrived this morn," he said, and Aragorn nodded.

"Then let us think how we should use them. Excuse us, please," Aragorn said to his companions, and signaled quickly to the Rangers standing a little ways away. Immediately, they began making their way back to camp. "Legolas?"

"I shall see Pippin whither he would go," the Elf said smoothly, and got what sounded like 'thank you' in Sindarin ere Aragorn and Théoden went to join Denethor, who was standing off to one side, waiting for them.

Which left Pippin alone with the prince, who said nothing, but only gazed questioningly down at him. After a moment spent contemplating the bustle and crowd awaiting him back in the camp, the hobbit asked, "Is there somewhere quiet you could take me, Legolas? And maybe without too many... bodies?"

"I cannot take you into the City, and it would in any event be a long walk to such places as I know there," Legolas told him, but he stood silent a moment, thinking. Then, seeming to hit upon an idea, he beckoned, "But I believe I may know a quiet corner. Come!"

Some little while later, having followed the city wall northeast a ways, then turned out into the field, Pippin found himself sitting on the stoop of a burned out cottage. The Orcs had torched it once the defenders had been driven back into the City, but though the roof was gone, and the stone walls were blackened with soot, the frame remained, and the yard, though littered with the debris of battle and broken tools or furniture, had been cleared of the dead at least. Pippin could imagine it might have been a pleasant place once. And it was blessedly quiet, a balm to frayed nerves.

For a time, Pippin simply sat there, staring down at the brown grass between his toes, soaking up the silence and such sun as a winter's late afternoon afforded, while in his head, he heard still the song of the Rohirrim. At one point, he found he was even humming snatches of the tune to himself. It seemed different with only one to sing it—bittersweet, but nothing a child might not sing to himself as he played or did his chores. _'Tis strange,_ he thought.

And he thought also of the choice laid before him—whether to ride out with the Rohirrim or march east with Aragorn and Legolas. Covertly, he glanced sideways at the Elf's shadow—Legolas had gone within the house, and but a little while later, had found his way to a seat upon the top of one of the remaining walls. He had not moved since then, nor spoken, seeming content to keep the silence. He was often silent lately, and though that might not mark a great change from the days before Parth Galen, there was that worrisome quality to his silence.

 _To say nothing of his words!_ Pippin reminded himself, recalling the recently overheard argument. For though he had not understood the words, he had not needed to to understand their significance. And there was the unsettling fact that he had heard his name spoken once or twice before he had slipped away. _And Strider and Legolas are not easy about each other any more,_ he thought.

Yet quarrel or no, they would both march east to the Black Gate. And what of himself? He still could not quite come to a decision. Or at least, he could not quite bring himself to say 'yes' to Aragorn's question, and he sought a reason for that failure. Certainly he missed the Shire, missed Tuckborough and his parents, his sisters, and cousins, and all of his friends, and he worried about them. _For they don't know what's coming, what might be coming. Someone should warn them,_ he knew. And Strider was right that folk at home would listen to him more than they would pay heed to a rather grim and frightening and certainly disreputable stranger.

 _Fatty would help me. He believed me and Merry when we told him about Frodo, after all,_ Pippin mused. _And old Maggot—he would help. He's seen the Black Riders, knows right well they're not wholesome, that they mean the worst sort of business. He'd believe me. He'd bring the Marish with him, help talk sense to Merry's dad, and that would give us Buckland. He'd see the need as soon as he learned what happened to Merry, surely. Soon as he did, he'd help me explain it to my Dad, and that would be Tookland. I don't know about Hobbiton, but with Frodo gone and two of the three largest townsteads in agreement..._

It could work, he thought. It could be done, and it might not even take so long to rouse the Shire, especially if the tale of the attack on the _Prancing Pony_ had gone west. He could go home, get folks ready for the storm, if it came. He might even be able to stir up Bree.

Yet he could not quite settle upon doing it. _For what about my friends here? The war is here, after all. Frodo needs us. Shouldn't I stay?_ he wondered, and wrestled with himself. He could go home, which in truth he wished to do, and rouse the Shire. Or he could stay here, and take up arms, even as Boromir had told him once he would do. _And I know I can now. It's a lot of scrapes I've been through now,_ he told himself. Pelennor wasn't even the worst, in a way. Or at least, he had felt a little safer standing with the archers, watching the others charge the lines of their enemies than he had felt standing in that huddled circle on Parth Galen. Or in Moria. Or on Weathertop.

 _What's one more circle, then?_ he asked himself. _It's nothing I haven't done before, and everyone will be better armed than the last couple of times..._

And yet it was different. Would be different. He had done what he had had to do the other times, and things had happened so swiftly, there had hardly been time to think about matters. There wasn't much to think of, after all, when Orcs came swarming. _But now_... He had said he would go with Frodo, and he remembered his pert words to Master Elrond in Rivendell. And he remembered, too, the Elf-lord's reply to his dismay over the prospect of being left out of the Company:

_That is because you do not understand and cannot imagine what lies ahead._

And he hadn't. Not even after Weathertop. He had perhaps begun to understand after Moria and Parth Galen; but Pelennor had still been an awakening. He thought he had not done badly—even Aragorn was willing to admit that—but having once walked straight into the fire, knowing it awaited, could he do it again? For now Aragorn's words joined Elrond's: _There is little hope that we shall return, and that being so, we may not count upon it._ Aragorn had not said that before Pelennor, or the Paths of the Dead. He had never said such a thing before. _Too good a captain?_ Pippin wondered, recalling Halbarad's words.

Now, though... now was the hour when imagination had its revenge, the worse because he thought he might possibly understand now.

 _We're going to our deaths. This will not be a battle, it will be a slaughter!_ His friends were going to walk right onto that killing field... and he was being asked if he wished to join them. A great honor—the greatest; the sort of honor one only fully won by dying... A hideous feeling washed over him then, as if he could feel every bone in his body, every organ, every inch of skin shrink before the blows of too many, many weapons, and vivid, vicious imagination showed the wounds blooming already upon quivering flesh...

"Pippin?" There came a soft _thud!_ and then Legolas was beside him, an arm about him against the shivers. "What is it? You changed suddenly."

"Do you ever think about what could happen to you, Legolas?" he asked, swallowing against an upset stomach.

There was a silence, but then: "Sometimes," he admitted.

"Then how do you bear it?" he demanded, gazing up distressedly at the Elf. "And you're immortal! You're not supposed to die!"

"No, Elves are not supposed to die. But we can be killed, and we can be wounded. One simply learns not to think too much of it. Think of other things—lying in the sun, perhaps," Legolas suggested, chafing Pippin's arms.

"But what about when you can't help but think it? What then?"

"Then usually, you feel sick and you shake and sometimes, you weep. And there is no shame in that. With time, you learn to bear with it until it passes, as it always does."

"Because you think of other things." Pippin squeezed his eyes shut. "Just like Bilbo said," he murmured, remembering, suddenly, the old hobbit's oft-given advice. "Think of pleasant things." He breathed in deeply, striving to make his mind go blank, to make room for other memories...

"I can't do it," he said after a little while. "I just keep seeing Merry, and the battle, and then—"

For answer, Legolas pulled him suddenly close against him, and began singing softly. And as Pippin listened, the strange melody seemed to steal through him like the scent of Tuckborough's kitchens through the warren of old smials; he felt his breath begin to come easier, and his stomach ceased its roiling, and he sighed with relief.

"What did you do?" he asked, marveling, when Legolas trailed off, still huddled comfortably against the Elf.

"I found the right song," Legolas replied.

Pippin blinked at this. "Can all Elves do that?"

"We each have our own art, that is all."

"Oh." Pippin let his eyes close again, wishing he could linger in the strange calm that had descended. _But I only have until tomorrow night to decide,_ conscience nagged gently. _Barely a full day!_ And he thought again of what Aragorn had told him: _If you do march east, you should know the larger state of affairs._ Which was why he stirred himself to say, "Legolas?"

"Yes, Pippin?"

"What were you and Strider arguing about this morning?" Pippin asked, straightening up so he could see the Elf. And when Legolas said nothing, only stared at him as if in puzzlement, he said patiently, "I came back at one point to try to get some sleep, but I heard you arguing. I didn't understand it, of course—you were speaking Sindarin. But I heard my name, and I just want to know: did I do something wrong?"

Legolas' expression seemed to clear a little, as he replied quickly, "No, of course not. Our argument does not concern anything you have done."

"Then why did you talk about me? What's the matter?" Pippin persisted.

And though Pippin would never have thought to see Legolas blush, he thought the other must be as close to it as ever an Elf came. But: "I apologize—I never intended that you should hear that, and it was likely an uncharitable retort to make. I fear we are somewhat at odds of late, Aragorn and I, but rest assured, it is no fault of yours."

"Well, I suppose that is good to know! But is there nothing I can do to help, then?" he asked. "We've been worried since Edoras, Merry and I. Or rather, Merry has been; but I've been wondering since we talked in Dunharrow. You've seemed..." He paused. 'Frightening' was probably not the thing to say, however true it might be, but he couldn't seem to find the proper word. "You've not seemed yourself for awhile," he finally said.

"I think all of us might seem strangers to ourselves at the moment," Legolas said smoothly.

"Yes, but—oh, all right, I suppose that that is so," Pippin conceded, brow furrowing. "I just don't like to think that if I stay here, you'll be by yourselves at the Black Gate when you have such a quarrel."

However, this confession did not elicit the response Pippin had expected. " _If_ you stay?" Legolas repeated, and the hobbit found himself the object of an intense green gaze.

"I haven't decided yet," he said quickly, which did nothing to lessen the other's discomfiting attention.

"Pippin," Legolas said urgently, "there is no need for you to go to the Black Gate!"

"Well, there's a need for six thousand men to go. I expect one hobbit and one Elf wouldn't go amiss," he replied, aiming for a touch of levity, despite the queasy flutter the topic inspired.

"What would you even do there?"

"Stand in a circle and fight like the rest, I suppose," Pippin answered. Then, trying to forestall these objections: "Legolas, Strider explained it all to me before he asked if—"

"Did he indeed?" came the soft, sharp reply, as Legolas rose and moved a little ways away to stand staring back at the camp. And Pippin, seeing this, put two and two together at last.

"Were you angry with him for letting me come along? Is that why you were talking about me?" he demanded, rising himself now. For a long moment, Legolas did not answer. But then he spoke again, eyes still fixed upon the camp, and his voice was flat:

"There was no need for you to come to Gondor. It was a needless risk. Aragorn knows this."

"But I was the one who insisted on it," Pippin protested. "And I would have found a way anyhow. Merry and I had it all worked out with Éowyn, because we never thought for a moment Strider would agree to take us with him."

"And yet he did."

"Because I fought with him!" Pippin said emphatically. "I argued with him—I had to, to make him see I had to come! He did not want me and Merry anywhere near the war at first, but we didn't come on this quest just to stay safe while you taller ones went off to maybe get yourselves killed! We should at least be there with you, doing what we can. And I think we did right well this time, Merry and me, for not being much use."

"There is a difference between bravery and foolhardy courage, Pippin, and Aragorn ought to know it," Legolas began, and Pippin sighed loudly.

"Well I know it, too. And I'm the fool of a Took! I'm not likely ever to be wise, especially if I go with you to the Black Gate. Good thing that I wasn't allowed on this quest on account of needing wisdom," he said, feeling rather vexed by these responses. _As if I had nothing to do with my being here!_

"Pippin—"

"No, you listen!" Pippin lifted his chin. "I'll tell you why we were brought along, and you will have to listen, because Gandalf said it, and he _was_ wise. It was not for strength and not for wisdom that we were chosen, but for friendship. So there's no use saying we're not strong enough or wise enough or brave enough to be warriors—that's not why we're here. We're here because we are part of the Fellowship, and that is what we do. We stick together through it all. That's what hobbits can do in a war like this.

"Otherwise, it's as I told Strider: I'm not one of the ones who needs protecting. Not anymore. So you don't need to argue over me. Nor over Merry, and he is _my_ cousin, after all, not yours. And _I'm_ not angry about it. I just _miss_ him." He stopped then, hanging his head as once again, he felt tears begin to well up. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his sleeve, and then suddenly, he laughed a little, breaking the charged silence.

"It's funny," he said softly, "how things get clear all of a sudden, when you least expect it!" He sighed. "I'll take my leave now, if you don't mind. Think I'll go look for lunch if there is any. Don't worry anymore about me, Legolas—I'm all right. Or if you must worry about me, then mend whatever's the matter between you and Strider, and you'll have no more reason to. But for me, I have to think about where I'm headed the day after tomorrow."

So saying, he made the Elf a polite bow, then, hobbit-light, he waved farewell and left Legolas, standing still and silent, to his own thoughts.

 

 

In the end, he begged a bit of bread and some soup from the Rohirrim again, who were only too glad to share it with him. Apparently, word had got out quickly after the burial who he was, and the Riders were eager to praise the deeds of 'Meriadoc Sceaduhniter' to him. Which was touching, and he was grateful for the easy, open companionship offered (even if it was a tad too martial for his tastes), but eventually, he found himself back in the healers' camp, visiting Greta again. There he learned that the healers had decided he could try sitting up for a time, and even walking about a bit, so long as he had someone with him.

"I get dizzy sometimes," Greta explained. And then he smiled a bit, and said, "Thank you for coming this morning. All of us liked your stories."

"There's more where they came from, if you want them," Pippin offered, and was not surprised when the offer was accepted. Telling tales kept him through supper, which was brought for him again, this time by Master Æscher himself, who was now off duty, and as interested as the next man for something other than report of war. By the time Pippin bid them all good-night, lanterns and torches and braziers were being set up and lit.

He returned to the tent to find neither Aragorn nor Legolas were present, though he did find a note left for him from Aragorn, telling him to inquire of the Rangers or of Lord Borald's men for supper and anything else he might need, for Aragorn did not know when he might return. _I wonder whether they have finished sorting all the men yet,_ Pippin wondered, and wondered again what he ought to do. He spent some time thinking about it, but eventually, wearied by the grimness of such considerations, he spread his blankets and burrowed beneath them. He was asleep within moments.

The next day dawned to an empty tent, and another message from Aragorn, this one delivered by one of the Rangers who had taken up standing guard for his Chieftain. "He bids you good morrow, and sends his apologies that he cannot remain, but there is much to be done before the march," the man said, and then indicated the Rangers' campfire. "There is still breakfast left, if you wish it."

"Thank you!" Pippin replied, and hastened to avail himself. The Rangers greeted him with their usual courteous spareness, but it was a surprisingly companionable breakfast for all that he probably heard ten words exchanged throughout. But afterwards, he found himself wondering what he ought to do. He did not much fancy running into Legolas again—not for a time, at least. He could visit Greta again, and a part of him was sorely tempted, for at least there he felt useful, and he had not to think always of the decision bearing down upon him.

But for that very reason, he thought he ought to stay away. _I have to tell Strider tonight,_ he reminded himself. And as he stood staring up at the City walls, it occurred to him that he had not yet seen anything of Minas Tirith. _And this was Boromir's home,_ he thought.

"Have any of you gone in?" he asked, nodding at the City.

"A few of us have," one of the Rangers, Melendir, replied.

"Do you think they would let me in?"

"Why would they not?"

"Well, Legolas said something about not being able to go into the City," Pippin replied, and watched a few discreet looks pass among the Rangers.

"That is another affair," said one of the older men. "You would be welcome. Only go to the Second Circle, if you have no business to pursue. The First Circle is filled with rubble."

Thanking them for their advice, Pippin at length departed, making for the gates. He passed by them, by the Riders' mound, and the guards, and thence into the streets beyond. There was, indeed, much rubble, and many a house smoked still. There were guardsmen going about, helping clear the roads or investigating damaged houses, and a number who seemed still to be putting out fires, for there was a line of men passing buckets down into the smoke-murky depths from a well that had somehow escaped damage. Kerchiefs and scarves covered most faces, and as Pippin watched, he saw a pair of men emerge carrying a shrouded form between them—apparently, there were still bodies to be found in the First Circle, and Pippin hastily looked away.

The Second Circle was much quieter, though there were a few tumbled buildings even there to tell of the siege. But not nearly so many, and there was no sign of fire. There were fewer City Guardsmen on the street, though he noticed a number of different colored tunics seemed to be about. All of the men, however, whether of Minas Tirith or some other, outland company, seemed akin in their anxious looks and they spoke in low, hushed voices as they went. Amidst the tall stony arches and imposing houses, Pippin was struck by how small they seemed, and how bright.

Indeed, all color seemed strikingly bright in this white city. There was a little lawn before a house that sat upon a corner, a patch of pale, startling green, shading to brown at the edges. A little further on, there was a small planter hanging beneath a window, with brilliant Yule roses poking their heads above the rim. Another home had gay yellow shutters, seeming like strange, square daisy eyes.

 _Who would imagine such a place at home?_ he wondered, as he wandered the streets, staring up at the elegant masonry. The Shire, with its broad, green verges and soft, spreading color, its low, friendly roofs, seemed very far away indeed.

 _And it may not be here much longer, if Frodo doesn't reach Mount Doom. None of this—Minas Tirith or the Shire—may be here much longer._ And even if the Shire endured, Minas Tirith might not, if Aragorn were right. _I think perhaps I understand poor Boromir a little better now,_ he thought, feeling a stab of kindred dread.

Frodo would find a way through the worst wasteland, of that Pippin was certain, if only because Sam would never stand for anything to hamper his beloved master. But armies were a different story. If the soldiers of Gondor and Rohan did not succeed, if they could not keep the Red Eye upon them, even at cost of their lives, there might be no home for anyone to go home to. _Six thousand men..._

The day wore away, and Pippin, tiring eventually of his wanderings, settled onto a great, squat stone planter at the center of a carrefour. There he settled, fingers digging into the cold earth, and watched as men flowed all about him, absorbed in their own tasks and heedless of him, heedless too perhaps of the numbers set down by each name on the rosters the lords and captains were even now drawing up. _Six thousand names going east. Am I one of them?_

The sun was low in the sky by the time Pippin abandoned his seat and made his way down to the First Circle, and to the gates, and he joined the traffic towards the camps. He ate supper with the Rangers, feeling a need to fortify himself somewhat against the evening's interview, then walked the short distance to their tent and peered inside. For a wonder, Aragorn was there, poring over a map. The Ranger must have caught sight of him from the corner of his eye, for he looked up as he entered, then straightened, seeing Pippin's expression.

"Pippin," he greeted him. "What news?"

"Well, I've decided," Pippin replied, drawing a breath and squaring his shoulders a bit. "I've thought about all you said, and... I can't do it. I'm going home."

* * *

  
  
**Translation notes**  
  
All the OE vocabulary is from either: [The OEME site](http://home.comcast.net/~modean52/oeme_dictionaries.htm), the [Modern English to Old English Vocabulary](http://www.mun.ca/Ansaxdat/vocab/wordlist.html) page, or Catherine Ball's [Instant Old English](http://www.georgetown.edu/faculty/ballc/englisc/instant-oe.html) page. All grammar that is correct comes from the grammar pages of the University of Calgary's [Old English](http://www.ucalgary.ca/UofC/eduweb/engl401/index.htm) site. All the incorrect grammar, conjugation, and possibly embarrassing vocabulary problems come from me. See below for what I was trying to have Théoden say.  
  
" _Sweostor-sunu mín, thridda láttéowa Éomer Éomundessunu._ "—My sister-son, Third Marshal Éomer, son of Éomund.  
  
" _Fer thu hál!_ "—Fare you well!  
  
" _Meriadoc Saradocessunu thære Shiremearce._ "—Meriadoc, son of Saradoc of the Shire-kingdom.  
  
" _Hier ús, Béma... Ferien ge hál. Ferien eall úre déathas hál." "Géalágé!"_ —"Hear us, Béma... Fare (all of) you well. Fare all of our dead well." "So be it!"  
  
The burial rite of the Rohirrim has exactly two things drawn directly from the books: the joining of the recently dead with ancestral spirits ("The Battle of Pelennor Field," RoTK) and the burial of fallen Riders in a mound ringed with spears ("The Riders of Rohan," TTT). The idea that the dead might guard the places they died defending is drawn from Théodred's last command ("Let me lie here to guard the Fords until Éomer comes", UT) and the note in Appendix A, the account of the Stewards, where it is said that when Folcwine's twin sons died defending Gondor, they were buried in the same mound near the crossings of Poros, and that this seemed to deter Gondor's enemies from crossing the river.  
  
 **Other notes:**  
  
I don't have access to books currently, save electronically, which doesn't give me any page numbers. Page numbers will be added later, when I have the chance to look these up in the more traditional manner.  
  
The title for this chapter is drawn from Butterbur's Bree proverb: "There's no accounting for east and west...", "At the Sign of the _Prancing Pony_ ," FoTR.  
  
 _Think of pleasant things._ —line taken from the Rankin-Bass version of _The Hobbit_. (Thank you, Marta, for the assist!)  
  
 _And I'm the fool of a Took!_ —See "A Journey in the Dark," FotR.  
  
 _It was not for strength and not for wisdom that we were chosen, but for friendship._ —"I think, Elrond, that in this matter it would be well to trust rather to their friendship than to great wisdom. Even if you chose for us an elf-lord, such as Glorfindel, he could not storm the Dark Tower, nor open the road to the Fire by the power that is in him. " See "The Ring Goes South," FoTR.


	43. Lie Down in the Darkness

The night had been fitful—busy, anxious, men moving about at all hours, packing, unpacking, repacking, to the tune of a steady stream of commands. Someone was always coming, always going, and Pippin would wake in the darkness to the sound of voices, dream of the beat of booted feet hurrying upon the earth.  
  
Dawn came, and he opened his eyes to find naught left in the tent but the washbasin, ewer, and his own pack, which had miraculously materialized while he slept—no sign of Strider or Legolas. He rose swiftly and splashed water on his face, scrubbed the back of his neck and behind his ears, then fished his own comb and brush out and tidied himself as best he could. He wished fleetingly that there were time to do laundry, but he figured he would simply have to make do for a time. _At least I have a later to do the washing in,_ he thought, and winced as he pulled his pack onto his back and made his way out.  
  
"Master Took?" Pippin looked up at the Ranger— _Berendur, I think?_ —who was apparently standing guard, or else waiting for him to emerge.  
  
"Good mor—hullo," Pippin said, quickly changing his mind. If his slip meant aught to the other, he did not show it. "I hope you weren't waiting on me?"  
  
"I was waiting for you, but 'tis no trouble. I have a message for you, from my lord," most-likely-Berendur replied, courteously.  
  
"There seem to be a lot of those, lately," Pippin murmured, but then quickly added: "But please do go on."  
  
"My lord said to tell you that you should go to King Théoden's tent, that he and the King of the Mark will expect you there for breakfast."  
  
Breakfast. Pippin glanced east, where most of the tents had been struck, and men stood or sat now in large groups about little fires, talking amongst themselves, taking a last meal before departure, and he felt his appetite sour. But: "Thank you," he said, and made the young man a bow. "I'll go there then. And… you eat something, too," he urged.  
  
"We're seen to, never fear," he replied.  
  
"Of course," Pippin sighed, and yet did not depart. It was strange: he hardly knew the fellow—was not even sure of his right name—yet he was afraid to leave him. Afraid, for he should say farewell lest he be rude, and yet how on earth did one say farewell on such a morning? "I suppose I should be on my way. And you… Berendur, is it? Yes? Well, I… that is, it isn't raining, which is good, and, ah, I wish you… well."  
  
"Safe journey to you, Master Took," Berendur replied, and made him a bow, still all Ranger courtesy. And he did Pippin a favor then and turned away to begin striking the tent, sparing him the need to respond. With a sigh, Pippin made for the Riders' camp.  
  
Like the camp of the Gondorians and Rangers, it had been greatly reduced in the night—tents had been struck, bedrolls rolled, and horses were being groomed and readied to ride. But a few tents remained, including the king's, which was marked by the banner of the white horse. He greeted the guards who stood at the entry, and was admitted without question. Within, he found Théoden and Aragorn, both clad in their armor, standing over a table with a map upon it. Breakfast was at hand, at a smaller table, and appeared to be the infamous 'drink and bite standing' Pippin had come to be so familiar with since Bree. Or at least, the pair of them were certainly not sitting down to it, but talking quietly, pausing every so often to take a bite of something from the platter. But they looked up as Pippin entered.  
  
"Good morning, Master Took," the King of Rohan greeted him.  
  
"Hullo," Pippin replied simply. And: "Hullo, Strider."  
  
"Pippin," Aragorn said, and gave him a nod, eyeing him closely. "I hope you got some rest last night?"  
  
"Some. I woke up a lot," Pippin confessed.  
  
"'Tis hard to sleep amid such bustle, and the night before a journey is always restless," Théoden said kindly, then gestured to the smaller table. "Please join us. There is porridge in the small pot, and bread and some of the winter apples."  
  
"Thank you, sire," Pippin replied, clambering onto a stool, the easier to reach the offered breakfast. And despite the sourness of his stomach, he found that once he began eating, he was quite hungry. He swiftly devoured the porridge, then started in on a heel of bread, content to listen while Aragorn and Théoden discussed the road, and possible battle scenarios. And: _How can **they** eat, thinking about all that?_ he wondered, feeling a pang of guilt then.  
  
At length, Aragorn straightened. "Lord Denethor ought to be here soon, and there is a last matter I had hoped to attend to before then. I should not be long, but if he comes while I am away—"  
  
"I dare say the Steward and I shall have some things to say to each other in that event," Théoden replied. "I have not yet spoken to him of my instructions to Éowyn, and he might wish to know them."  
  
"Thank you," Aragorn replied, and then turned to Pippin. "Take what you will, Pippin, for the rest is easy to carry, but come with me."  
  
Pippin hastily grabbed a couple of apples and stuffed one in either pocket. And he hopped down off of the stool, then turned to make Théoden a bow, determined that the courtesy of the Shirefolk should not suffer by comparison to that of Rangerly others. "Thank you, sire, for breakfast," he said. "And thank you again, for all your care of Merry. I am… I am sure his family would be very much grateful to you, and should not mind me thanking you on their behalf, too."  
  
The old king sighed, but he smiled a little, if sadly. "'Twas only fitting and needs no thanks," he said, and then suddenly moved to stand before Pippin. He laid a fatherly hand upon the hobbit's head, and spoke a few words in his own tongue, ere that hand slipped to Pippin's shoulder. "Thus do we bless each other on the eve of war—go, and give my greeting to your cousin's family. See that they know my gratitude that their son stood by mine."  
  
"I-I shall," Pippin stammered, and bowed quickly again.  
  
"Come," Aragorn beckoned then. "Théoden, I shall be swift."  
  
Théoden nodded, and Pippin followed the other out of the tent, hurrying a bit to keep up. "Where are we going, Strider?" he asked.  
  
"To see a friend," Aragorn replied, as he turned them toward a number of wains beyond the camps and companies. Most of them had until lately belonged to the Enemy's forces, but men had scavenged them, got the worst of the grime or blood out, and turned them to their own use in the past two days. Harnessed now to horses who had carried knights and Riders into battle not long hence, they sat facing west or south amid a loose circle of Riders or men in the livery of various companies of Gondor.  
  
But it was no mere shipment of arms or goods they carried. In them sat or lay wounded men: men of Rohan, going home, and men of Gondor, going south. Men who might one day fight again, if only time enough were granted them to heal, but who would benefit no one in a line this week, and possibly not even next month, or the month after. Walking wounded, riding wounded, the very young among the armies of both lands, the few remaining boys of Minas Tirith—and one hobbit to go with them.  
  
"Will all the westward carts go to Edoras?" Pippin asked.  
  
"Nay, not all," Aragorn replied. "Those at the head of the column make for the Westfold. Aldburg is last in line, after Edoras and Dunharrow. 'Tis for the Westfold wains that we make."  
  
"Oh." _Then Greta should be at the back, I guess,_ Pippin thought, glancing over his shoulder. _Captain Éothain, too, I suppose, if he is going._  
  
At length, Aragorn slowed to a halt, and Pippin followed suit. "Wait here a little while, if you would, Pippin," he requested. "I shall return shortly."  
  
"Of course," Pippin murmured, and watched a moment as his friend pulled his hood up and made his way in amidst the wains. Only a moment, then, feeling somehow indecent, he turned away, gently kicking at the turf beneath his feet, dislodging a clod of dark earth. He worried at it with a toe, watched it crumble, hummed tunelessly to himself just to fill his ears and head with sound.  
  
"Pippin!" Aragorn's voice sounded at length, cutting through his song. He turned back to the wains, spotting the other quickly, and began making his way over to join him.  
  
Aragorn stood by a wain, and as Pippin drew nigh, he caught a glimpse of a grey cloak, and dark hair, and then: "Come to join us, have you?" asked a familiar voice.  
  
"Halbarad!" Pippin slung his pack up into the cart, then clambered in after it. Propped against one side of the cart, Halbarad nodded minutely.  
  
"Good morning, Pippin," the Ranger murmured, and shifted a little, uncomfortably. Pippin had been present when a healer had stitched the gash upon his brow closed. This morning, it seemed an odd, angry weal. Halbarad's right arm, bound and splinted, rested in a sling, and bandages showed where the laces of his shirt front were not pulled fast. There were shadows beneath his eyes, and his mouth seemed tight, his gaze a bit squinting. He looked tired and pained, and to Pippin's eyes quite unwell—pale, but also just a little sick.  
  
"Are you all right?" he asked, without even thinking, and got a wry twitch of a smile for that.  
  
"Better than yesterday, even," Halbarad replied, though the quip lacked energy. "'Twill take more than a troll to end me." He paused, then finished: "Never fear, we'll get you home, the four of us."  
  
"Where are the others?" Pippin asked, then, for Halbarad was the only Ranger about, other than Aragorn.  
  
"Sulras said something about feeling sick—went to walk it off with Narvendil. Calindir is holding the horses, I think," Halbarad said tiredly.  
  
"Narvendil and Calindir took no hurt," Aragorn explained when Pippin frowned uncertainly. "They are also the youngest of our company, and shall have the unenviable task of restraining Halbarad and Sulras from foolishly ignoring the healers' orders. I count upon you to assist them in that chore."  
  
"Oh, I'll take care of him. I've still got his dagger, after all—that should make me more fearsome than the troll, anyway," Pippin volunteered, and got a snort of laughter from Aragorn, and a slight smile from Halbarad.  
  
"Good." Aragorn paused, looking from Pippin to Halbarad, as levity faded. "You have your courses, and you each have your task. I hope one day to hear of their success."  
  
 _But I may not._ That silent qualification slipped in unwanted, and Pippin swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. And he felt a certain panic: _For now it's come to it, I don't want to say good-bye!_ But he had to, this time he had to… and he still didn't know how! He watched, breathless and frightened, as Aragorn and Halbarad embraced, Halbarad cursing the sling, Aragorn with his fingers buried in Halbarad's hair as he pressed his cousin close. At length, Aragorn murmured an elvish something, and Halbarad nodded against his chest, then drew back.  
  
"Aye," he rasped, then cleared his throat, wincing. "Aye, I shall."  
  
"Then I need not fear," Aragorn replied, leaving Pippin to wonder what had been said. But he forgot such questions swiftly, for Aragorn turned to him then.  
  
"I don't know how—" Pippin stammered, blurting it out before the other could speak.  
  
"Who does?" came the immediate counter, as Aragorn held out his hand. Pippin reached and grasped it a moment, ere he, too, was drawn into an embrace. Drawn, or fell into it—like a stone coming home to earth, and he squeezed as hard as he could.  
  
"Frodo and Sam are out there still," he said, stubbornly clinging to hope. "You'll see!"  
  
At this, Aragorn chuckled, and held him then at arm's length, gazing down at him fondly. "An irrepressible hobbit," he declared. "You will do well, Pippin—you shall be fine."  
  
"I know, I just… I'll take care of things at home. And I'll take care of this one," Pippin promised, and jerked a thumb at Halbarad, who groaned soft protest.  
  
"That is good to know, for he has ever been a stubborn and cantankerous patient," Aragorn replied, with a ghost of a smile. Then, after a moment's hesitation: "Do me one favor more, since you have Halbarad already in your keeping: take care of Arwen. Take care of my wife."  
  
And when Pippin gaped at him, Aragorn glanced at Halbarad, who sighed, and said: "I shall tell him."  
  
"Thank you. Then I must go, for Lord Denethor awaits. Take care. Farewell."  
  
With that, Aragorn departed, leaving a very forlorn hobbit and Ranger behind. For a time, they sat in silence, unable, it seemed, to bear speaking. Eventually, two more Rangers appeared: Sulras, leaning on Narvendil's shoulder, was carefully helped into the wain, for he seemed unsteady on his feet, though from what Pippin could see, it was his left arm that was hurt, not a leg. Sulras immediately joined the Rohirrim in their cart: he curled up under his cloak and almost immediately, it seemed, fell asleep. Narvendil, after a murmured word with Halbarad, departed, too—perhaps to fetch his horse from Calindir.  
  
And so the silence went on, and it pressed upon them, 'til Pippin thought he must surely burst like an overripe berry. Thus when at last horns sounded, piercing the air and cutting through the low murmur of men's voices, it startled him, as did the clear voice that sounded over the steady beat of armies marching onward: _Your king goes to war—sing, all ye people!_  
  
There was no knowing who said it, but it seemed not to matter. In response, a babbling roar of voices broke out: hoarse, frayed, cracked voices lifted for just this little while, heedless of any rhyme or order, in a tumult of tongues. Some sang in Rohirric, some in Westron, a few perhaps in Sindarin, telling of honor, or of rage, or of courage; Pippin found himself half-shouting Bilbo's old road song. All was chaos: melodies clashed, one rising for a time, others falling, some not even songs, but just shouting—an uneven swell of sound that rippled through the ranks. Yet it did not matter, for whatever was sung or said, it meant only one thing:  
  
 _We are here, we are with you!_ It was love, and it was awful, and it left Pippin feeling beat all hollow when finally the last of the singers fell silent.  
  
And: _So for pride you wouldn't have flattered,_ Pippin told himself, harshly self-recriminating as he wiped at his eyes. _See what it gets you!_  
  
But then he shook himself, and drew a deep breath, stilling that inward voice. No, there would be no flattering of his pride, nor dying for the flattery on far fields. Not for him, or any of them here. _No time for that. Nor for second guesses,_ he thought and sighed as he sank down beside Halbarad. Halbarad said nothing, but he did lay an arm about Pippin's shoulders, and after a moment, very carefully, the hobbit let himself lean against the Man. For he was weary, and there was the Shire to think of, and all his promises to keep. Thus:  
  
"Aye," he said softly; "And now we've got our work to do."  
  
  


***

_And now they had their work to do, as a Measure found itself in that music there below and bent, as Note attuned by note. Now they had their work to do—_

_Hobbit-halfling, treble-fragile-high descant, sinking towards—_

_—Ranger dischord, minor-constant-low, undercurrent disrupting other chords, turning them towards itself—_

_—Steward standing alone, solo made to bend to chorus, proud verse become common refrain—_

__

That we should stand, that we should stand, that others venture forth and find—

Victory. Defeat. Life. Death.

Uncertainty and Silence.

The Song limped on, winding round its Silences, and trembled as it waited for new Measures—

A Note rose newly high, the Song raised itself up over itself, and Time bent, redoubled, the Music Chording back upon itself, and the Note plunged suddenly **low** , basso, down down down—Song rejoining song, rejoining singer, seeking time, seeking time, there must be time for Timing—

 

 

—and on the road to Mordor, Legolas the Elf shuddered in response.

***

From Minas Tirith's gates, the army of the West passed through the remains of the Causeway Forts, and continued along the road to Osgiliath, where Lord Denethor had sent those who could be spared to attempt repair of the stonework there. The bridge still stood, and defenses were being raised upon the eastern shore, and some scavenging upon the western. The host passed over the river and continued on some miles into Ithilien, following the old road east. They camped amid the trees, wary and watchful, and the Rangers in their company stood vigilant guard with knowing eyes.

The next day, they continued east, until they came at length to the Crossroads. There, in accordance with the design they had adopted during the lords' final debate, they left a guard to keep that way against any threat from Minas Morgul.

"Rangers shall do best in Ithilien," Denethor had argued; "But do you think to take stripling lads into the wastes before the Black Gate? Our hardiest men are loath to go there!"

"If aught comes from Minas Morgul, they may still be overwhelmed," Imrahil had pointed out. "The Enemy does not lack for lieutenants—one has fallen, but eight remain."

"The Nazgûl shall not trouble those left at the Cross Roads," Aragorn had said, with grim surety, then. "Not until our business is done. Let them keep that road, therefore."

And so at the Cross Roads, the captains stationed as many as they dared to leave behind: young men from Lossarnach or Ethir, or from the green plains of Rohan. These they left, with a company of Rangers who knew the land and had long hunted the Enemy's spies with bow and arrow and sword. Minas Morgul they did not challenge, for the tale that Denethor had told, of Faramir's encounter with the hobbits, had suggested it was prudence not to draw the eye of the Dark Tower to that place.

The army of the West, leaner now, stripped to those—an unhappy many!—made hardy by the struggle against Mordor, marched onward, turning north. All day they marched, and were aware of being shadowed. Though they did not show themselves, all felt the presence of the Nazgûl riding the airs above on their fell mounts. Aragorn sent scouts ahead in pairs, cautious and quick, and the Rangers of Ithilien made a net about their fellows, watching for trouble. Thus passed the second day of the march, and they camped again upon the road, in the shade of the Ephel Dúath.

For two days, they continued as straight as they could, and at sunrise, noon, and sunset, after conferring on the matter, the lords of the West let sound a challenge to Mordor, heralding the coming of King Elessar. There was never an answer, though the woods seemed to listen, and the mountains, too, seemed to bend a little closer, dragging the gloom that clouded their peaks with them. The sun was a watery disk in a grey sky, for all the wind was in the west.

At the end of the fourth day of their journey, they came at last to the end of Ithilien. The trees ran out into scraggly, leafless stumps that grew crooked on the desolate heath, then disappeared entirely. Here the hearts of all were tested, for though the captains and lords had done all they could to bring with them only such as they deemed able to walk open-eyed into this net, still, the horror of the desolation could not but be suffered.

Progress slowed then, for they walked now within the realm of the Shadow of the East, and the will of the Dark Lord beat against them. They toiled along the road, as men in a bog or through water, and the steams and fumes that rose from the earth played tricks on men's eyes. Friends and companions seemed to flicker in and out of existence, present one moment, obscured by thick white vapors the next, and all the army seemed so many lost shadows passing toward oblivion at noon. They camped that night under heavy guard, the sentries peering into the night, dreading what might come.

Yet the sun rose, dim and cool upon their faces, to shine upon an empty plain. The only sound was that of their own trumpets, sending out a challenge once more before they continued onward, leaving the road to take a more northerly approach, intent upon avoiding the treacherous hills into which the old road plunged as it turned east. All that day they marched, and the knights and Riders whispered to their horses, who snorted and rolled their eyes 'til the whites showed, fearful. Indeed, before the day's end, those horsed were forced to dismount and walk their steeds.

And still they met with nothing, and men began to long for _something_. Some sign, some rupture of the tense stillness, of the sense of being watched by a foe that might strike at any moment, but who chose to withhold the blow, drawing out the anxious misery of the victim. The sun climbed slowly down its path, and as it set, the army settled in for what ought to be its last camp…

 

 

Aragorn stood at a little distance from the fire near the center of their camp. They had deployed as best they could, keeping the horses and wains to the outside, and stationing a ring of guards behind fires that marked the edges of the camp. Archers stood peering into the darkness, anxiously fingering arrows. All about the camp, men huddled together, standing or sitting or rolled in their blankets, little trails of steam rising as they breathed. But no one slept. The oppressive silence grew but worse now that their only light came of the campfires. Aragorn watched the sparks rise into the night, strange and frantic fireflies that winked out too swiftly, never to return, and the snap and crackle of burning wood seemed loud indeed.

 _'Tis worse than any din, this silence,_ he thought, for it was not simply that no enemy sounded in the night. _Nothing_ sounded. The land was dead, and the wind still: they were the only living creatures upon this plain, and the conviction ran wordlessly among the men: _Soon enough, we shall be as this place, and cease to trouble it!_ Despair lay thick on the ground, and he knew that they could not go much further. They had not the heart for it. _Another day and there might be no contest should the Enemy strike!_

As he walked among the men, listening to quiet conversations or long, hard silences, he therefore guarded his own tongue. There was no comfort to speak of, and so he did not offer it; but he stayed with them a time, ate a little, spoke less and listened to the sudden chatter and babble of some, bore with the too telling silence of others, out of long practice. Nor was he alone: he passed Imrahil at one point, the Prince speaking quietly with a little knot of soldiers; another time, he caught Théoden's eye, as the King of the Mark sat listening with his men to some tale recited by one of the Riders, who stood at the center of the ring of his fellows, his arms opened out to a sky and power that seemed far away tonight.

"What does he say?" a voice asked suddenly, from nigh at hand, and Aragorn barely managed to stay his hand as he turned on the speaker. Legolas, however, did not seem to notice, remaining motionless, his eyes fixed upon the story-teller.

And Aragorn, who in truth had not truly been listening closely, absorbed in his own thoughts, shook himself slightly, then glanced back at the Rider. After a few moments, he replied: "'Tis the tale of Fram's journey to slay the wyrm, Scatha, in his lair."

"A dark tale for a dark time?"

"No doubt."

Legolas made a soft noise in the back of his throat, then breathed out in a long sigh, his breath a white stream in the cold air.

"If it be good, they shall not come to the end," he murmured, and Aragorn stilled the impulse to demand a reason for this prophecy. For in the end, he knew the answer. Unbearable as the silence was, somehow words were worse, but there was worse and then there was unspeakable. And among the living dead, what more unspeakable than hope? _And when hope dies, then all else fails as well._

For there comes a moment, different for each man, when the demand of war overburdens him, and the enervated spirit finds nothing to propel it forward, to make the arm lift or the flesh cringe, even from blows. The horror cuts too deep, and to hold to what might have moved him once, to what seemed even yesterday or an hour ago to be the center of his world, the very light of life, is an impossible effort, and can but torment him to no purpose. In that moment, death becomes his only spur—to die, or to kill so as not to think anymore. So as not to feel anymore the pain of losing, always losing, of having what is sweet in life in sight, yet out of reach. Better by far to let such go than to resist and hold them in the face of the pitiless rule of war that lays whole worlds low.

And Legolas ought to know it, Aragorn thought, feeling an unexpected surge of bitter envy that caught him by surprise. Perhaps the Elf sensed that in him, for Legolas turned slowly to him, shrewd green eyes fixing now on him, and after a brief struggle, Aragorn looked away.

"They say," Legolas said then, switching to Sindarin, "that Orcs were made from Elves. You know this?"

"I have heard it, yes," Aragorn replied.

"There are others who say that even as Aulë made Dwarves in imitation of Ilúvatar's making, Morgoth made Orcs, but in mockery of it, and that this is the true kinship of Orcs and Elves," Legolas continued.

"I have heard that, too."

"I thought you would have." Legolas paused, and then said softly, "I do not wish to learn the truth, Aragorn."

In response, the Heir of Isildur sighed, but after a moment, he nodded. "Then you shall not," he said simply. But he could not refrain from adding: "But Men know, too, that the outward is one thing, the inward another; it needs not the face of an Orc to be one. The Nazgûl whom the Enemy has changed would not be as they are, but that the inward is dead already. We know this; we are the image of our own monstrosity—no need for Orcs without; we know them in our own faces."

There was a lengthy silence, ere finally Legolas replied, "I will not quarrel with you tonight."

"That is good, for I would not answer you tonight either."

"Strange. I thought you just did," Legolas murmured.

"We are not quarreling tonight, I thought."

"No."

"Well then."

"Indeed."

Another silence, then: "And what of yourself, Aragorn? Is there anything—?"

"No," Aragorn answered, quick and sure, but he added lest short answer rouse swift ire: "I would see this thing through—whatever comes of it."

"You are certain?" Legolas pressed.

"For tonight," he admitted after a moment, and Legolas gave a soft snort.

"I see," the Elf replied, amused despite himself, it seemed. And once again, that heavy green gaze came to rest upon his face, but there was this time less sharpness to it. Indeed, there was an odd softness to the other's eyes now, such as had been lacking since Edoras, so that Aragorn felt compelled to ask:

"What is it?"

"Since you have forfeited a request, perhaps I may ask one thing more, in your place," the other replied. And when Aragorn made a slight gesture to go ahead, he said, "Forgive me the past weeks. For Pippin's sake, if not for mine. He has been worried about us, you see."

Aragorn blinked, nonplussed, a moment. Then: "For _Pippin_ …?"

"Apparently, we are not so very good at hiding matters from him," the Prince of Mirkwood sighed. "Hobbits!"

 _Hobbits, indeed!_ Aragorn glanced west, in mind traversing all the long way from Gondor to Eriador, and to the green hills and vales of the Shire. "He should be nearing Rohan now, if they kept a steady pace," he murmured absently. Then he shook himself a bit, and looked long and searchingly at Legolas. At last: "We may already have lost everything, in which case there is no point of looking beyond tomorrow for any measure of it. But it would be nothing worth, all our struggle tomorrow, to go to it divided."

So he said, and smiled a little. And as he and Legolas clasped arms, he said in his turn, "I am sorry for my part as well. We all fail in our dealings with this Darkness, I fear."

"And yet we are here," Legolas replied, and looked southeast now, to where the Gates lay, some few leagues hence.

"Aye, and the end of the road is nigh." Aragorn followed the other's gaze a moment, then shut his eyes and pressed thumb and forefinger over his eyelids. "I am going to sleep for a few hours," he announced, when he lowered his hand. "Will you rest or watch the night?"

"There is no rest for me. 'Tis too near, and my dreams…" Legolas trailed off. "Go and sleep," he said. "I shall wake you ere dawn."

"Good night, Legolas."

"Rest well, my friend," the Elf replied.

And for a wonder, he did. Perhaps it was habit, or perhaps he had simply had enough of this day and the silence and the entire journey. Whatever the case, Aragorn slept soundly, and he did not dream.

***

The night wore slowly away 'til dawn, when the sky lightened a little, though the air was hazy as ever. Now the army began the final leg of its march, over a land of grey, tumbled stone, and as they went, Legolas would look up every now and again.

"The Nazgûl watch us," he told Aragorn and Théoden. "I can see three of them above."

"Three only?" Aragorn asked, sharply, puzzled.

"Aye. The others may be higher, but I do not think so," the Elf said. "I think there are only three."

"What does it mean?" Théoden asked.

"I do not know," Aragorn replied. "But let us not stop to wonder. If we are to have an answer, no doubt we shall receive it when we reach the Gate."

So they continued, until the great gate with its doors and towers rose at last into view. And not the gate alone: all through their journey, they had wondered at the Enemy's scarcity; now they knew where they had been.

For the Black Gate stood open, and all before its doors, in a press twenty deep and more, and stretched all before the length of the gate-wall the armies of Mordor were gathered. Orcs innumerable, and in two long, broad columns, Haradrim and Easterlings, and Variags from Khand, and twisted creatures without names showed now against the hilltops. Outward they stretched from the Black Gate, as if to gather the army of the West in a lethal embrace, and yet more waited beyond the doors, rank upon rank, as far as they could see.

There would be no leaving this net. And they had not come to leave it in any case. Therefore, Aragorn and Théoden urged their men to the tops of two great slag hills that stood within the arced line of their foes, and there the banners of Gondor and Rohan were raised. And even as they did this, there came riding a small party from the Gate. The riders stopped just out of range of bow-shot, and one minced his horse a few paces closer and held up his empty hand, in token of parley.

"I would have speech with him that calls himself 'King Elessar!'" he cried, and men shuddered at the sound of his voice.

"Trap," Legolas said immediately.

"One more can do us little worse hurt, I deem," Aragorn replied. "Nevertheless, keep a close watch."

"Never fear," Legolas answered.

Aragorn went then, with a small guard of men to the foot of the hill, and warily advanced upon the Messenger.

The Messenger sat his horse in silence beneath the black banner of Mordor, motionless, until Aragorn was perhaps a horse-length distant. Then he raised his hand once more, this time commanding a halt. And he said:

"So. Which of you leads this rabble?"

"Who asks?" Aragorn demanded quietly, as he stepped Roheryn one pace forward. The Messenger's fell eyes fastened upon him, and he felt the touch of the other's mind upon his. But for all the malice of the ruined Man before him, he could not match Galadriel's gaze for weight, and so Aragorn remained unmoved. The Messenger hissed and withdrew abruptly, but he spoke swiftly thereafter.

"I am the Mouth of Sauron. As for you… a brief reign over an uncouth and desperate people shall we remember, Elfstone!" the other mocked.

"Brief it may be. Nevertheless, it shall have been—your master cannot undo that, nor the battles to come that he shall gnaw upon in mind, nursing the wound that he cannot command loyalty, nor even cow all by fear," Aragorn replied. "And he shall be ever uncertain in his victory, if in the end he has it."

Then the Messenger laughed. "Bold words, little king! But we shall dispense with them. My master, Sauron the Great, has a token for you, in which he deems all is said that must be said between you." And here, the Messenger held out his hand, and one of his party kneed his mount forward to hand him a black bag, in which some weight lay. The Messenger held it up, then lobbed it across the distance to Aragorn, who caught it. "Open it."

He could feel the eyes of his escort on him, and knew that they did not like this, not knowing what lay within. But Aragorn looked once more into the eyes of the Mouth of Sauron, and seeing there less threat than cruel eagerness, undid the tie and looked within. At first he saw nothing, but he realized that whatever this token was, it was swathed in cloth black as the bag itself, and a sudden chill took him as the shape and size registered.

_A Elbereth, no!_

But the thing had to be played out, and so he drew off the veils, 'til at length Samwise Gamgee gazed back at him with lifeless brown eyes.

A cry went up upon the hill, and of a sudden, the Mouth of Sauron reeled in the saddle, clutching at a grey-fletched elven arrow that lodged in his breast. Amid the cries of rage and terror that went up from the Messenger's party, and the sudden press of Rangers about him, as his escort moved swiftly to put their bodies between him and aught that might be returned for that shot, Aragorn found time to dart a quick look up to where Legolas stood, another arrow nocked already. But matters were moving too quickly—the Messenger and his escort were retreating, and the hosts of Mordor moved now, pouring down from the hills and surging forward from the Gate.

"Back to the hill!" Aragorn snapped, and returning his grisly token to its bag, he urged Roheryn about, the lot of them flying back to their place in the line.

And when he reached the hilltop where Legolas stood now, gazing down over the plain filling with their foes, he snapped at him: "I said _watch_!"

"'Tis done," Legolas said simply, echoing his own excuse not long ago. "And it cannot be undone."

At that, Aragorn let out a breath, closing his eyes a moment against the gaping horror of the day's revelation. Or revelations. Perhaps. He frowned then, and after a little while, opened his eyes and glanced down to where the first of their enemies fell to Rangers—of Ithilien, of the North, and the few archers of Théoden's company, and one Prince of Mirkwood.

"'Twas not Frodo," he said then.

"What?"

"They might have sent Frodo. But they sent Sam instead," he elaborated. "'Tis over-late to muse on signs, perhaps, but…"

Legolas was silent, but eventually, he shook his head. "Perhaps. But it may mean many things. And the day is no less going down for us. Remember your promise, Aragorn!"

Aragorn gripped the other's shoulder, then drew Andúril, and settled in to watch the battle unfold.

And the Men of the West did better, perhaps, than any might have thought, as outnumbered as they were. The defenders knew that they fought now for honor, and to make the Enemy pay as dearly as they could for their lives. The word had gone around the camp that morning:

_This is our last gamble—make it count!_

And they did. Wave upon wave of Orcs and Easterlings, Haradrim and Variags, broke upon the bases of the hills, and as lines wavered, bent, buckled, the defenders backed as slowly as they could up the hills, and the ground in their wake was stained and littered with bodies.

But as outnumbered as indeed they were, even the doughtiest swordsmen of several Ages could not have held against the onslaught. By mid-morning, the enemy was lodged half-way down the slope; by noon, they had pushed forward another twenty yards. And by early afternoon, Aragorn had left his place beneath the standard to join the circle of defenders, Legolas at his side.

They still had the high ground, without which they should not have lasted so long, but the slag hills were treacherous. No natural hill, these, but the waste of Sauron's works, unsteady and with many a shifting rock to throw a man. Friend and foe alike suffered on the slopes, and Aragorn had a few close calls—indeed, one time a slip when the rocks underfoot shifted had likely saved his life when a sword thrust came in unexpectedly from the left, passing straight through his own position not moments before. Everyone was coated in dust, and the dust soon became a red-black grit as the ground grew damp with blood.

The mind emptied of everything. There was nothing but the chaotic clamor of battle, the numbing repetition of steel beating on steel, and the little aches and pains evaporated from consciousness like water from a hot pan. Aragorn marked the moment when he saw the banner of the Silver Swan sway, then fall, and then again, when the White Horse went down to the sound of loud and jeering cheers from the other hilltop. Their turn must come soon, but the shrinking ring of defenders still held forth, and indeed, managed by some unknown strength, to push back in that moment. Mayhap desperation drove them, but for a moment, just for a little while, their enemies fell back, surprised, as the knot of Gondorrim and Rangers and one Elf surged suddenly against them.

But it could not last. Not even an Elf's rage could stand against the might of Mordor, and Aragorn caught sight out of the corner of his eye of something swift and bright darting inward, and instinct moved him.

"Legolas!" he cried, and shoved the Elf back and aside—

— _and gasped as pain sharp as the blade itself shot up his side, and scraped between ribs, once, twice, and he let Andúril fall to press his hand against the wound, collapsing to his knees. There was a rush of sound, as of a strong wind, in his ears, and the sounds of battle faded before it._

 _Somewhere, someone was shouting his name, but he could barely hear it over the rush of something that might have been wind or rain or a hundred years of tides upon the shore. And there was something in that sound, a murmuring, a whispering—a voice, and he strained to hear it. There was a name_ —

Arrandir.

_Even in the blackest night, we cannot sorrow forever._

_Else we do not live._

"Else we do not live," he gasped, and then laughed suddenly. "Arrandir!"

"Aragorn?"

He blinked, and found Legolas's blood-stained, stricken face hovering over him. And he wanted to tell him then—that he was all right, that it was all right, but he was laughing too hard, and it hurt too much, but that seemed not to matter. After so long mirthless, it was like rain after a drought, as the pain began to recede a little in the face of sudden exhaustion—Valar, he was weary!

 _Arwen._ He thought of her and her long vigil, and smiled. _My turn, love!_ he thought drowsily.

And with that, and a vaguely coppery sigh, he closed his eyes, and let thought flee whither it would.

* * *

  
  
Lots of semi-repetitive description of landscape from "The Black Gate Opens" – I hope you weren't too terribly bored by it. And with this chapter, we officially end AU!Book V. Next posting will move us to Mordor and Frodo's journey! — Dwim  
  
 _Your king goes to war—sing, all ye people!_ : "And before the Sun had fallen far from the noon out of the East there came a great Eagle flying, and he bore tidings beyond hope from the Lords of the West, crying:  
  
 _Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor,  
for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,  
and the Dark Tower is thrown down.  
  
Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard,  
for your watch hath not been in vain,  
and the Black Gate is broken,  
and your King hath passed through,  
and he is victorious.  
  
Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,  
for your King shall come again,  
and he shall dwell among you  
all the days of your life.  
  
And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed,  
and he shall plant it in the high places,  
and the City shall be blessed.  
  
Sing all ye people!_  
  
—"The Steward and the King," RoTK, 269.  
  
"[F]or those whose soul is bent beneath the yoke of war, the connection between death and the future is not the same as for other men. For others, death is a limit imposed on the future. For soldiers, it is the future itself, the future their vocation allots. That men should have death for their future is unnatural…. The soul undergoes duress every day. Each morning it amputates itself of all aspiration, for thought cannot travel in time without encountering death… one has abolished in oneself the thought that to see the light of day is sweet…." Simone Weil, "The 'Iliad' or the Poem of Force." _Simone Weil's The 'Iliad' or the Poem of Force._ Trans. James P. Holoka. New York: Peter Lang Publishing Inc., 2003. 58-60.


	44. Where the Shadows Lie

High over the plains of Mordor, the watch-tower of Cirith Ungol was alive with activity. Alive, acrawl with orcs, who trembled beneath the eyes of the Nazgûl that stalked its ways, impatient for the war that even now battered the walls of Minas Tirith, yet retained against such needs as this day brought. There was ghastly fume rising over the high passes, as Shelob's body slowly withered in the corpse-fire, now two days hot. Minas Morgul was awake once more, as regiments were moved to occupy it and search about the Stair and roads there. There was much coming and going over the high bridge that joined the Ephel Dúath to the Morgai ridges: searchers, reinforcements, messengers to bear tokens and report to Lúgburz, to Barad-dûr, where the Lieutenant of the Tower would groveling bring them before the Dark Lord. 

 

Something was afoot—that was certain, and a great, brooding wrath had settled over all the land, as the Lord of Mordor pondered the news and other tidings that came to him as Lord of the Rings. There was a Power at work, mayhap more than one. He had felt it, somewhere to the West, and sent forth his armies earlier than intended, hoping to thwart it, wherever it lay. He had thought to catch it in Minas Tirith, but nothing yet had challenged his will there. Not truly. But then from the very fences of Mordor had come this alarm: a breach of his own land. Doubt had set in. Was it Minas Tirith that concerned him? Or was it something else? The Ring moved with this Power. Yet who held it? And where was he? The Song was shifting, and he listened, straining after its elusive refrain.

 

The servants of the Red Eye, who moved now toward the plains of Mordor and the armed camps massing there, were hushed and fearful, feeling in the land the echo of their Lord's will, and they went about their business in quiet efficiency, seeking to pass beneath notice.

 

Nor they alone: for north of Cirith Ungol—not so far north, but north enough—in the dark, shadowed vale between the Ephel Dúath and the Morgai, there toiled a small, grey figure, barely visible against the dullness of the rocks...

 

 

A small orc crept among the boulders that lay strewn along the old Morgai river channel. One might have thought it was hunting, going slow among the rocks as it was, rather than risking the higher ground which, though steeper, was more open. But one who looked more closely would have cause to doubt: it did not so much creep as reel from stone to stone, arms outstretched to catch itself as it half-fell against them, then pushed off to struggle toward the next, stepping clumsy on the dry, pebbled ground. It seemed dazed, dizzy, almost, moving as if through a dreamworld—or else underwater. But it fell ever so swiftly when it caught its foot upon a rock, and there was no soft sleep at the end to receive it, nor a waking beyond the nightmare.

 

Frodo Baggins lay sprawled where he had fallen, chest heaving, the stink of leather and metal and old, orcish sweat filling his nostrils, and his face pressed against the hard, dusty earth. His tongue felt swollen, so dry was it, and every bone in his body ached. He felt as a leaf on the storm-winds, tossed hither and thither, battered against bark and railing and walls. Even now, he could feel that storm at his back, seeking to lift him once more, and limbs twitched feebly in response.

 

_I can't, I can't!_ a part of his mind wailed, resisting the call. But that voice, the voice of a reasonable hobbit, was not the only voice in him. The other spoke in tongues of flame, pulsed dark and dully red, like coal in the ashes and as menacing – the stone of ordeal, weighing heavy there at the core of his being, kindling agony in the small, pale scratch of a scar upon one arm, upon the cold white mark in a shoulder, making palms itch with heat. He had to bear it, had to bear it onward however many miles it took, however far it might be to safety – malign, precious burden. 

 

Lately, there was a third, a constant soft whispering too 'high' almost to hear. He did not know who spoke, but it did not matter, for it, too, was an urging onward – of that he was certain. Like a stream that rushed in its bed, flowing round the silent rocks that cut through its surface, that voice whispered on its way, and Frodo's weary complaints sank into it like pebbles and were carried away. 

 

And so there was nothing to do but go on. Had not Sam said so, and had he not promised when he rose from his side, and did not lie down there beside him? Thus while he had will in him, he struggled forward, Sam's face fixed in his mind's eye, and _For you, for you,_ he thought, and made himself put one foot before the other. 

 

And when will abandoned him, then all sight failed, save a sort of afterimage that walked with him and _felt_ of Sam. Eventually, he would blink, and find himself elsewhere than he remembered, with little memory of how he had come there. Only the wounded report of his body suggested his course, and a sense of burn or chill that made him wonder whose will moved him when his own failed. Had he gone in circles, caught between fire and water? Had he doubled back? Where was he, and how long had he wandered? He could not have said, left to his own devices: the vale was a monotonous sameness of rocks and peaks once he had left the bridge behind. But he could feel the pull of an infernal fire, feel it pulsing through the land, radiating outward from the wounded heart of Mordor, and so knew that day by day, inch by inch, he drew closer to the Fire he sought.

 

Still, he did wonder where he was, and how he had come here – what transpired in the blank spaces of memory. Try though he might to recollect, nothing came to him, yet still he tried, and thought it not entirely a futile effort. For in point of fact, they were not _wholly_ blank: wavering images, isolated scraps of memory or else delusion, floated in the darkness of the recent past, ambushing him in those brief periods between sleep-walking and the hell of wakefulness. Then, sometimes, they came fast and thick – too much so for him to make much of them, and he never knew what would remain with him when he opened his eyes to Morgai vale. 

 

But he knew there had been orcs – he was wearing orc-gear, and he remembered the babble of their voices: angry, incomprehending, confused, demanding. He remembered their faces all about him. He remembered their stench – had no need of memory, in fact, for it was on him and he could not escape it. He had been among them, and somehow, he had departed, leaving them behind. There had been the bridge that he dimly recalled seeing from on high: a bridge that ran above the vale, connecting the hideous, watchful fortress with whatever lay beyond and down a dark road. He remembered the feel of walking over an airy void. 

 

And then there was nothing, unless one counted waking again and again to rocks and bruises and thirst. Somehow, he had passed the tower of Cirith Ungol, had 'got away clean,' as Sam might have said, yet he had no notion how, though he knew the pursuit must be up, however confused it might be. He could not wait for memory to return before fleeing, however – that, too, was certain.Perhaps that was why he kept on as he did. Perhaps that was all the voices were: the hallucinatory terror of capture. Perhaps he was simply talking to himself...

 

But the weight of the Ring, and its heat belied such hopeful thoughts. No, the Ring was real, and he knew it spoke – verily, it _sang_ in the strange way of metal, and there was not one dweller in Mordor who was deaf to its fell melody, mistake it how they might. For in it was the voice of _Him_ who twisted every heart and put his mark on them all, calling them to him. The Ring, too, bore that mark – _was_ that mark – and it knew its Master's call, recognized the land of its birth. 

 

Other things, too, it knew – and he knew that it knew. It knew how he had come here; it knew the tale of his recent days, of how he had come past the tower, and the suspicion crept over him that perhaps those blanks in his mind were not the Ring's doing, but his own. Because perhaps... perhaps a part of him did not want to know. Sometimes, in the dim realm of shadows that he wandered in when will abandoned him, he had the impression of a solid, limp weight, of the heat of another body crushingly close, and of a mortal terror... a terror not his own. There was never a face, and never a sound, just feeling, and his hands burned hot...

 

Had it really happened? Orcs, he knew, were filthy creatures, but they were not likely to leave armorlying about for just anyone to pinch. Who did his clothes proclaim him to be, that orcs should have let him past? And where was their owner now?

 

Such questions made his heart pound and his vision swim. For though he had seen now murder aplenty since leaving the Shire, something about this made him want to vomit. Though he'd nothing in his stomach to heave and no strength to waste on it, such shreds of memory and the questions they raised made him sick. At the same time, they confused him. Could it be that he was worried... about an orc? About one of the innumerable orcs that opposed him, and whom he would have to fight and slay should they present themselves this instant? One of the many whom he had, in fact, helped to slay on the journey through Moria? Was this... guilt? 

 

As he plodded forward, he worried at the puzzle. It made too much sense to suppose he had slain an orc, taken what he needed, and continued onward, just one orc among many, an orc that had got 'lost' at some point. It made too much sense, and yet why should he feel so? He had been horrified after Moria, but that had not prevented him from acting, nor had he given overmuch thought to anything beyond his own terror and revulsion, and his grief over Gandalf's fall. Yes, battle was disgusting, but he had done it before. He had not felt this way afterward. 

 

Suspicion raised its head once more. It could not be the nameless orc that concerned him so much, that put such blanks in his mind, that set the will to forget against the desire to know. What really lay in those gaps? What... or who?

 

It was at that point that he would feel the sweat begin to bead on brow and neck – a cold, clammy sweat, and he shivered within his borrowed armor. He thought of Aragorn, of Boromir and of Legolas, Gimli, Gandalf. He thought of them facing the wargs in Hollin, and standing against the orcs in Moria – there was a fey, cruel light in them in such moments. They could be ruthless – that was both the why and how of their being warriors: they could kill, because that was __how_ _ killing was done. He saw Boromir, writhing in Aragorn's grip, murder in his eyes, his fair face twisted by a madness. 

 

A madness that had shown the split in him into which the Ring had wedged itself, corrupting all that lay about it. And the Ring, wreathed in flame, hung before his mind's eye, burned in the back of his mind.  
  


Frodo felt his arm throb with the memory of It lodged there in his very flesh, and now he did swallow against nausea. Who was he, he wondered, in those blanks in memory? Who was he, when he staggered through the seeming unending night of Mordor, eyes unseeing, lost to the world 'til, for whatever reason, he was jolted back to wakefulness? 

 

_You're the one who's got to do this, Mr. Frodo, that's who._

 

Sam's voice sounded in his mind suddenly, and Frodo swallowed, hard and dry. _My dear Sam!_ He shut his eyes a moment, and that dim, afterimage of a hobbit floated there in his mind's eye, eclipsing momentarily that circlet of fire. Frodo breathed in deeply, a breath sharp enough to hurt the stitch in his side, and then he opened his eyes. Mordor remained as grey and unyielding as ever it was, but he dug the heel of one gauntleted hand into his afflicted side, gritted his teeth, and picked up the pace. 

 

The mountain rumbled, and the heat within him flickered in kindred restlessness. 

 

And from the depths of his being, there came an answer: _Yes, I am coming,_ and an eye opened onto –

 

 

_– a small grey figure in the narrows of a great grey land. That is what the eye sees, and Frodo looks upon it and knows it for himself._

Where am I? _he wonders, and wonders, too, at the dearth of feeling in that thought. Everything feels grey as that land, shrouded – mute. Mute, yes, deadened. Silent._ The dry ravages _, he thinks, and knows not why._

_But they are, and this place is, and he is himself – dry as dusts and wispy with it. Come a breeze, and he should scatter like the husks of seeds on an autumn's day. And then the Thing in him would fall to the earth, burrow its way into the cracks of this land and lie there, winking gold, singing to the shredded sky 'til the Eye in the Tower saw, 'til the Will felt the echo of its own resonance._

_It will happen soon, he knows, and feels perhaps a little sting at the thought. How could it not? The thin, worn shadow crawling down the empty gully, over the sand wastes a lost river had left has not much light left in him to give. The Thing in him devours, slowly, leeches it out like sunlight takes color from cloth. Who knows where it goes? Or where he shall go? Will he end here in this grey between, forever?_

No.

_Frodo feels a thrill run through him, like the beat of a drum. No, he shall not end here. Here is no where, and there was no between of the Light and the Dark. No, for he stands in the shadows..._

Aye, you're in a bad way, Mr. Frodo, no denyin' it.

_Silence._

_Wonder._

Sam?

 

Much as I can be _, comes the reply, voiceless yet O! So exquisitely clear! And if he looks hard enough, Frodo thinks he can see a shadow in a sunless land that follows the grey wisp on his way._ I told you, Mr. Frodo, didn't I, that between leaving others and leaving you, leaving you would be the death of me?

 

Once upon a time, _Frodo answers after a long stretch of the mind after dim and hazy memory._ Once, you did say that, I think. I don't know. Not anymore.

 

Well, I do, and I did say it, so of course I'm here. I'm always here, just when you need me, _Sam says fondly, and Frodo feels him close now._ Didn't ought to've gone this far, though, Mr. Frodo. It ain't safe, you know.

 

There is no safety any more, Sam, _he says, with infinite resign._

Never was, really. But you know what I mean, sir. You shouldn't go walking in Mordor as not but your skin – things move in, if you take my meaning, _Sam says wisely, and Frodo can almost –_ almost _– see him standing there, blowing a stream of smoke around his pipe, as he would do at home, standing on the porch and looking over the gardens._

_There is a rumble, hot and menacing, and Sam, or the shadow of him looks up._ Storm's coming, _he says._

There is no rain in Mordor, _Frodo answers, longingly._

Didn't say rain. Storm. But, _Sam says, as the grey figure staggers onward down an ancient road,_ I dare say there'll be some of that, too. You ought to get yourself back there, Mr. Frodo, seein' as how it's all on account of you.

 

I cannot go back. I do not know the way, _Frodo protests, clinging to the dullness of this place. For 'tis better than the torment that awaits – anything is better than the torment that awaits in that place!_

Don't matter – you'll go back. They're callin', don't you know?

_Maybe they are, whoever 'they' are. At the least, Frodo can feel a tingling that starts in his fingers and toes and crawls up his limbs. He's getting heavy – gravity has found him, and he's going down, sinking down, and_ No no no, not that! Mercy, not that! Can you not leave me be? _he cries to the unfeeling sky._

_A sky that is warping about him, wrapping him up like a suffocating blanket, falling in after him, and he's going down, down, down – and he gasps as the heat hits him, right in the chest, like a weight of molten metal, that band about his heart._ No, I can't! Please, I can't! _he thinks, but 'tis no use. The worldhas got him now, presses in upon him, presses him back into himself, back with It..._ Ai Elbereth, save me, I'm going back!

 

And faintly, through the rush and thickness of the air: Of course you are, Mr. Frodo. Of course you are. But don't worry – I'm coming with you!

_Frodo cries out, wordless, voiceless, as the world comes crushingly upon him, and –_

–with a gasp, he blinked, just as the stone jarred him achingly sense-ful. He groaned and lay there upon the old road, unable to move. There was a thin, weak whistling in his ears, and after a time, he realized it was his own breath, and he could feel the grit of the road clinging to cracked lips. One arm was numb beneath his chest, but he could not muster the strength or will to shift it. 

_This is the end, then,_ he thought dully. He could see nothing but paving stones that marched onward past the limits of vision, and for all he knew they went on forever or ten steps. It did not matter. He could not imagine taking even one. Not even to save his life, and he could not even find it in him to fear. There was nothing in him – not even a sense of relief. Just... nothing. Nothing but heat and hurt. 

_Dry ravages._ He shut his eyes and willed himself away...

But it was not to be. Lying there upon the road, ear pressed painfully to the stones, hearing grown sharp since Weathertop heard the first ring and beat of metal on rock. At first, he knew not what it was, but after a time, realization took hold: orcs! 

And of a sudden, and utterly despite himself, he jerked. His whole body spasmed, twitched and cramped and clawed its way to hands and knees, as the white-hot familiar terror took hold: _They will find It!_ With a grunt and heave, he rose, and pain flared incandescent, nearly knocking him over. But he put his hands on his knees, and hung his head a moment before first one foot and then the other lifted, trembled in the air a moment before one after the other found the earth once more.Blood pounded in his ears as an echo of a deeper throbbing beat, and slowly, shakily, he moved to it, grinding forward, stop and start, unsteady as a newborn calf. 

_Hurry, Mr. Frodo, they're coming up fast!_ Sam's voice in his head sounded, and with a supreme effort, Frodo attempted to lengthen his stride, to quicken his step. And for a few precarious moments, he managed it, before of a sudden, his foot slipped – it came down and there was nothing, and the next thing he knew, he was falling. 

He gasped again as he hit the earth, but in surprise as well as hurt – for something chill and wet splashed over him. _Water!_ As he lay stunned and aching in the sandy damp, he could feel it trickling over his hands, and past his toes, and the orc armor and leather grew heavy with it. He shut his eyes. This was beyond cruel! That after the torture of going all this way, from Shelob's cave to this forsaken place, desperate for one drop to drink, he should now find water and have no time to get it, for the orcs were coming and he couldn't, he _could not_ let them have It!

But there was no way to stop it. There was no place to hide, no sheltering stone – just the road, and the open channel, and himself. 

_Curse it all, I care not any more!_ he thought, suddenly furious. He rolled onto his belly, dropped his head into the little streamlet, opened his mouth and let the water flow in, swallowing in great, convulsive greedy gulps. _Let the orcs come, I'll drink my fill or they can drown me here!_

So drink he did, and deeply, and reveled in the feeling of wet upon his face, and he neither cared nor noticed the bitter taste of the water. After so long without, he'd no taste for such, and he would've wept over it had he any tears to shed. 

But at last, the tramp of iron-shod shoes grew audible in the distance. And though he had thought to stay and give no further thought to flight, useless as it was, slowly, the dread came over him, and he found himself clutching at the pocket in which the Ring lay. _They'll take me to Him,_ he thought, as horror hollowed out his chest. _Any moment now, they'll see, and they'll come, and then...!_

He couldn't finish the thought. And though he groped at the hilt of the orc-sword that he bore, his fingers were nerveless, clumsy – he couldn't grip, couldn't draw. Was he dying already? Or was it the Ring's doing? Or had he simply nothing left of strength? With a shudder, Frodo shut his eyes, waiting for the hue and cry with bated, pained breath. 

_I'm so sorry, Sam!_

An odd, whispering laughter, like a fall of sweet bells, sounded in his mind, as if from the depths of the earth, reverberating down his spine. Then: _That's all right, Mr. Frodo. I understand._ A sigh of air brushed over him, feather light, head to toe, making his skin tingle. But still, he could not move, and he set his teeth and waited, and waited, as the sound of marching feet drew closer, and closer.

Shadow fell upon him – a long train of it, it seemed, wavering a little as the orcs passed. 

They never missed a stride. Their march did not falter. Two by two, they passed above him on the road, and never looked back and never slowed down, and their steps grew dim, faded into the distance, 'til he could hear his own harsh breathing once more. 

_Impossible!_ his mind told him, and incomprehension cracked his eyes open to an empty road... and a miracle of light! The feared wind had blown, and left him whole, and with the Ring in his pocket, and taken instead the ash clouds. There was daylight in the sky – the pale light of dawn. No doubt the orcs were hastening to reach their hold and shelter from the shine of day.

A strange feeling stole through him, then, and after a long, puzzled moment, he realized, to his wonder, that he was laughing! Painfully, wheezingly, sounding like a ghost or a gaffer, but he was laughing! The orcs had gone! Unbelievably, they had passed him by! As if... as if they had not even seen him. 

"But how...?" he croaked hoarsely, as he painfully levered himself up into a sitting position. "How could they possibly – ?" 

And then he trailed off, eyes wide, as speech died and wonder turned to sheer shock. Frodo stared, numbed and dumbfounded, for if the orcs passing had been impossible, what he saw before should be even more so. _It's a trick,_ was the first coherent thought he had, and yet trick or no, his heart leapt in his chest, as if begging for release. 

"But... not possible," he whispered.

But the figure standing staring down the road after the orcs seemed heedless of possibility. Or of history. Instead, he simply turned and eyed Frodo up and down, and gave him a small, sheepish smile, blushing as he said: "May I be forgiven! Didn't ought've gone ahead like that, but I've come back to you now, Mr. Frodo."

Samwise Gamgee stepped forward and held out a hand. 

"Come on, now, Mr. Frodo – we've a ways to walk yet."

Frodo stared blankly at the hand hovering before him – brown and callused and steady – then slowly reached for it. The moment their fingers met, he felt a warm wave of dizziness seemed to sweep through him. 

He had one glimpse of the lightening sky and the rest was darkness.

* * *

A/N: Welcome to the final book of Dwim's AU! Apologies for the many plodding scenes of Mordor that try to say what Tolkien said without repeating it verbatim –"The Tower of Cirith Ungol" and "The Land of Shadow" must be credited wholesale here, and may I never have to look at them this closely ever again. 

_That's all right, Mr. Frodo. I understand._ \- "The Tower of Cirith Ungol," RoTK, 208.

_May I be forgiven!_ \- "The Choices of Master Samwise," TTT, 445. 

 


	45. The High Road

AN: I had to change the last two paragraphs of the previous chapter, just slightly. Sorry for the long wait! It's been a hard chapter to write.

* * *

_Frodo._

_Wake up, Frodo._

_Frodo._

_Mr. Frodo—_

_It's time —_

 

_Time for breakfast, my boy..._

_Wake up.Wake up._

_Wake u—_

_**FRODO!** _

 

With a gasp, Frodo opened his eyes to a hazy sky, and a pale bright disc hanging in it, wavering behind thin-tattered clouds. The whispers faded in his mind, replaced by the soft hiss of wind over the desolate floor of the valley, and the murmur of the little spring of water by the roadside. He shivered, frowned faintly as he felt at his clothing – it was damp all down the front and had got stiff while he had lain witless. With an effort of will, he let his head loll to one side, back toward the road. There was no one upon it, and other than the wind and water, it was silent as the tomb.

_Was it all a dream, then?_ he wondered. Had everything been a dream, from the moment he had fallen from the roadside? The orcs and their passage and... 

"Sam?" he whispered, hoarsely.

"Here, Mr. Frodo."

Had Frodo had the strength, he would've leapt out of his skin. As it was, he only twitched feebly, and blinked as something bright moved at the corners of his eyes. Then Sam was standing there, leaning over him, brown eyes wide and anxious. 

"Are you ready, sir?" Sam asked, glancing over his shoulder and down the road a moment before turning back to Frodo. "Because I don't think we ought to stay here."

"But..." he stammered weakly, staring owl-eyed at Sam, "Then the orcs, they – "

"Ought to be hiding for awhile, I suppose, until _he_ can send another cloud of that brown muck our way. Seems funny, though, walkin' in daylight again – remember how we had to walk at night for so long, on account of them birds and the like that Mr. Gandalf and Mr. Strider feared?" Sam said, and shook his head. Then he held out his hand. "Come on, Mr. Frodo. If you're ready, we should be going. I got our water-skins all filled up."

He ought to have a thousand questions. Some dimly remembered part of him knew this, yet Frodo could muster no more than misgiving on the back of shock, as he regarded that outstretched hand. And then slowly he reached, thin fingers hanging in the air, wavering like a tree's bare twigs in a wind. Sam's hand caught his once more, but this time, nothing happened. Warm solid fingers twined with his, then the other pulled him to his feet, steadying him when he swayed. Sam flung an arm about his shoulders, nodding toward the road. 

"Don't much like it, but we've got to cross it at least. Just you lean on me, sir," Sam said stoutly. "I'll get us over!"

And so he did. Frodo leaned, and Sam helped him crawl up onto the road. The two of them shuffled across it, then down again, heading into the boulders and brambles of the vale and its far slopes. Then turning once more north, they began following the road as it wended through the Morgai valley, while the sun climbed to its zenith, then began its too-swift fall towards evening. 

For Frodo, even the vestiges of the morning's shock faded before the appalling toil of the day, and questions were utterly banished. In his misery, he clung simply to the fact of Sam – to the fact of his shoulder and arms, without which he would not have gone even ten yards, he felt. For ere long, the grey of earth and air leached into each other, ash and dust commingling, 'til soon naught but a dull, hard haze remained for him. His legs felt like water, and as Frodo struggled amid the weeds and rocks, leaning on Sam every step of the way, it was as if he were drowning in a river of dust – awkward limbs, made stupid with weariness, desperately sought purchase, but found none in the sand and ash. Beneath his feet, the world scraped by, long and dry as bleached bones, and the orc armor weighed him down like a millstone, a bruising, crushing torment. 

The cold of the day grew quickly bitter – the dark was coming on, as only a winter's night in Mordor could: without mercy. Beneath the damp of his clothes, Frodo shivered, and not only from the invading chill. For not all in this dismal twilight of a world was ice: he could feel __it_ _ in his pocket, like a brand against his flesh, like a promise of warmth he had only to reach for...

"Mr. Frodo?" 

The golden voice of temptation went abruptly mute, and the fire faded, though it remained like a coy and buried ember. Frodo shook himself, looked dumbly at Sam. But Sam was squinting ahead through the lengthening shadows, lips thin and tight, nose wrinkled a bit. 

"I don't think," he said after a little while, "that we ought to go much further this way. Those orcs went somewhere, and I'm thinking it couldn't be too far, even quick as they were going."

Frodo followed his gaze down the path, to where it turned a bend, running out of their sight around a hill that jutted outward, and as he stared, struggling to see something clear other than the haze itself, vision wavered, blurring at the edges. The world rippled with it – and then suddenly fell in on itself!

Frodo gasped – or tried to, but the air felt thick as water, and as stifling. Silence rushed in to fill his lungs and ears—a swift, groaning silence, like stones grinding against each other in the depths of a sea, that, in a convulsive shudder, vomited forth a strange landscape. A world turned inside out, it was as if he looked out from the bowels of the earth. And wherever he looked, things swelled forth monstrously to meet him: the road, with its cracked and dusty stones; the hills and mountains; the dried out river and its horrific skin of bloated pebbles. 

And the orcs. He could see them—a swarming, writhing, misshapen brethren, grotesque beneath flickering torchlight, and near, all too near. The torchlight blazed brighter, though strangely, the world grew darker still, and the orcs seemed to retreat, collapsing back into the earth, becoming one with it in that golden light. Frodo could feel the sweat break out upon his brow then, as an overwhelming desire seized him to follow them – to sink down into the earth and its womb-like warmth and be stone to the cares of the world above, give himself up to the dusty undertow of the world that followed the light...

But it was not to be. Something bright flashed across his mind – a cool radiance, like a star come to earth. The world heaved again, and a wave of nausea swept over him, as he tumbled out of that vision and back into himself. And:

"Mr. Frodo?" Sam was asking sharply, and he staggered when Frodo swayed, clutching desperately at him. "Mr. Frodo, what is it?" 

"An orc-den," he murmured into Sam's shoulder, panting, and shut his eyes swiftly, fearing to vomit. "There's an orc-den. Close... some miles… maybe two. I don't know!" He could feel Sam's eyes upon him now, and the dark behind his eyelids burned with a lurid golden heat. 

"Sir?" That cool brightness brushed against his brow, and Frodo shuddered. But his stomach subsided and his thoughts cleared somewhat of that metallic fever, enough so that he risked opening his eyes once more. Sam was regarding him worriedly, but Frodo merely gazed back 'til his friend sighed. "Orcs or no, it's no good just standing here. We've got to go forward. Or else go back." 

"We can't go back." The words were out of his mouth, put there by intuition that groped after memory, for the last few days were more darkness than aught else. Nevertheless, reason roused, prompting him to speak, if more slowly: "There was a hold awhile ago—I passed it, and they did not stop me. But now…"

Now they might. One could not count on wonders twice – Sam would be seen. Or they might recognize Frodo and ask after his errand – what it was, or whether it was complete, or they might want to know if he had seen the fugitives. Some of these dire thoughts must have shown in his face or communicated themselves between him and Sam, for Sam, after a few moments, nodded slowly, as if in understanding; and he looked back down that road, then up at the sky, at the mountaintops, thinking, ere he seemed to come to a decision.

"Well, no offense to Mr. Gimli and Mr. Gandalf, but I can't say as I'm eager to try another orc's lair, even just goin' past it," Sam declared. "Not when there's another way."

"Another way?" Frodo repeated dully, and his brow knit. "What other way?"

"Strider's way—up." This being said with a wave of an arm towards the steep and forbidding slopes of the Morgai. Once upon a time, Frodo might have made some clever remark concerning his desire to try another mountain pass, given how that had turned out. But Caradhras was far away, and memory dim, and in his weariness, he could say only and expressionlessly:

"But you hate heights."

"That's as may be, and they ain't no proper place for hobbits, that's certain. And so it's a way _he_ won't expect us to go. Nobody would expect it," Sam said, with quiet force. "Isn't that a reason to try?"

Frodo stood there and stared for a time up at the dark, sharp peaks, and at the sky behind them, stained with evening. At length, he closed his eyes, feeling the eastern pulse of that malign will like a ghastly sun upon his face. But the day was fading. The orcs were near, and who knew whither they would go? And if they found him... He clenched his fist about the Ring that burned in his pocket, and said finally:

"Lead on, Sam! I will try to follow."

* * *

They did not get far in their first plodding ascent, however, for all too soon, it did grow dark, and the treachery of the slopes was too great for them to risk it, even had Frodo's strength been greater, or his pain less. For his entire body felt as one great bruise and scrape, and he lay tucked up in a rocky cleft with Sam, trembling from cold and the spasms of sore muscles. It was a misery on the slopes—as bad, perhaps, as Caradhras in its own way, for it was winter still, and the winds were cruel. 

All through the night, Sam held him close, his cloak covering them both, and his hands folded over Frodo's own. For his part, Frodo clung to them as he would to the edge of the very world itself, for never had the Ring's heat tried him so sorely, it seemed, promising relief from cold and craving, both at once, in a long, merciless temptation. Frodo shut his eyes and lay in the cold darkness, and suffered his sleeplessness.

The next morning, unrested and still shivering, the two of them continued on their way, struggling up the side of the mountain, though in fact, they ended by moving farther north, too. It was Sam who noticed, near midmorning, a little ridge that led over a sharp drop down some two hundred feet. It was barely enough for a hobbit's toes to stand upon, and they had to jam their hands into the cracks that split the rock face, heedless of whatever creatures might dwell there—if, indeed, anything could live in so barren a cranny. Perhaps some fifty feet lay between them and a more secure and broader ridge, and by the time they had each made the crossing, legs and arms were all atremble with the exertion, and fingers and knuckles scraped and cut and dusty. It was some time before they could make themselves continue, especially Frodo, whose left arm throbbed with pain.

But by noon, they had climbed high enough to straddle the range. Pausing there, they looked back down the long, narrow trench stretching southwards to where the Tower of Cirith Ungol stood, a thin, hazy peak jutting from the Ephel Dúath. Then turning southeast, they gazed out over the Plain of Gorgoroth, over long, parched, and heat-withered leagues—some thirteen of them—to the towering peak of Mt. Doom, whose cone still glowed and smoked. 

"We've come too far," Frodo panted weakly, gulping air, his breath a white trail though the sun was high. 

"Or just far enough," Sam countered, pointing down at the plain. "Look!"

Frodo looked, and beheld an ominous sight. Below them, Mordor was on the move. The road that ran along the foot of the mountains was acrawl with armed companies, and there were vast camps pitched on the plains along the road. It was perhaps a mile straight down to the nearest company, whose thousands ran in a column twice as long as the height from which the hobbits stared. Beyond them, perhaps a league distant, there were others coming: all were marching north to the Black Gate, there to await their Master's commands. 

As for the Dark Lord, his wrath still ran through the land, but it was muted now, waiting, preparing as he brought his forces north—a cunning consideration hung in the air with the fume, troubling yet quickening the hearts of his servants. Nor was Frodo immune to it, one hand jammed into his pocket, the fingers fondling that hot golden circlet...

"They get all stretched out as they go," Sam said suddenly, pointing to the armies and following their northward path. "Like an inchworm, you see: a lot of them head off, and others follow, and by the time the last ones leave, the first ones are gettin' ready to pitch another camp. And there's a couple of them: if we get down quick, we can slip right between them at night and be on our way."

"Maybe," Frodo murmured. "But we must get off these mountains first. One step at a time—I cannot look farther!" 

"Well, and old Gandalf said it, didn't he? Don't look too far ahead—just far enough to mind the drop, here," Sam said, carefully easing down a little step in their path. He looked back up at Frodo. "Shouldn't we keep going, sir?"

"Yes, we should," sighed Frodo, and slowly removed his hand from his pocket, clenching and unclenching stiff and swollen fingers. Then he waved Sam onwards. "Go on, Sam. I'll come right after."

It took the rest of the afternoon to come about a quarter of the way down from the heights, for they found few ways to descend to lower ridges, and many more ledge-ways that went more in a line, or climbed again before dropping down, only to lead back up once more. At least their crooked, airy path, however much it rose and fell, made a continuous line south, rather than forcing them to double back towards the north.Nor did the winds threaten to scour the skins off them or pluck them from the heights, for, on the leeward side of the mountains, the air, though chill, at least was still. 

That night, as Frodo settled onto his rocky bed, he stared out at the campfires that filled the plains, like a thousand scattered embers of some giant's hearth. A much younger hobbit, or even the one who had left Hobbiton some half a year ago, might have recalled Bilbo and his marvelous description of the view from Erebor when Thranduil and Bard had camped in the valley below. Like fireflies they had seemed. 

But the hobbit who lay on the shelf overlooking Mordor had had all such interest stripped from him.Exhausted, he lay with glassy eyes fixed blankly on those lights, clutching at his left arm, rubbing the flesh raw beneath the orc-mail about that old wound. And all the while there sounded, between hearing and imagination, a thin, strange note, like brass metal ringing ceaselessly at the edges of awareness. It was not speech – there were no words in that single, unceasing tone, only a longing in it that pierced like a knife. The Ring, he knew, but could muster nothing of distance or disgust. Utterly absorbed in it, he did not know whether that note followed him into his dreams – he did not know whether he had slept at all, only that dawn found him utterly enervated, yet raw inside, raw as flesh dragged over stone. 

"I'm thinking, Mr. Frodo," Sam said when he got a good look at his master in the pale morning light, "that maybe we ought to wait a spell, 'til you're a bit more rested."

Frodo simply shook his head and blinked 'til the staring horror of the night-noise had gone out of his ears, 'til the world showed itself bleak and thin and weary to him, rather than gauded in that gold.

"No," he murmured, feeling a throb of foreboding in his breast. "There's no time. There's no rest. We must go on." 

 

"I don't know, sir. You haven't slept, I'll warrant, and you need to – "

 

" _ _Sam_ ,_" Frodo cut him off, and heard the twist in his voice that stopped just shy of orcish, though it had desperation aplenty in it. He swallowed hard, then drew a breath and said, more softly, though the strain thinned his voice: "It doesn't rest. It's always with me, always singing or seeing. If I stop, it goes on, and the longer we wait..." 

 

__The longer we wait, the less there is of me to go forward._ _ He did not say it, but Sam lifted his chin just slightly, though from the look in his eyes, his heart was breaking. But he took Frodo's hand, and kissed it – dirt, blood and all – and then turned and without a word began picking his way along their lofty trail.

All that day, they continued their precarious journey, still seeking a way down, though it was slow going. For as the Morgai themselves were separated from the Ephel Dúath but by a crack that had become a valley, so on the eastern face, a narrow ridge had split from the bulk of the Morgai and slid down in a single, long sheet, like a partly sloughed old snake skin. Between it and their own shelf lay some fifty feet of void—too far, even had they rope to climb with. 

But their own ridge did lead them further south, however hard the way, and since Frodo could hardly even imagine attempting to climb back up and over the other side of the mountains to follow the road, they decided to press onward as far as they could. Sam hoped thereby to get behind the armies of Mordor, which continued on their northward march, rather than having to dodge between them. 

"If only we don't come all the way back to that Tower and the bridge and the road!" Sam panted, as the two of them struggled up a rise. "Then we'd have to sneak, all right!"

Frodo, exhausted, in pain, and plagued again by the metallic murmurings of the Ring, malicious in its incessancy, did not answer, but only reached half-blindly for the next handhold. 

It was another day, after another long night of sleepless horror, before they found – finally! – a crossing point, where the ridges rejoined in a long, steep, stone-tumbled slope, whose loose stone and sand made of it a perilous, shifting descent. Nor for fear of falling only did they go slowly: neither wished to risk disturbing overmuch dust and garnering the attention of anyone below... or above. Though they had not made an appearance, once or twice, the hobbits had felt one of the Nazgûl pass overhead, observing the progress of the armies from on high, where their presence would be marked, but would cause no panic among the beasts in the ranks. Each time, the two travelers had frozen, and Frodo, struck dumb, had ducked his head and pressed against the rock as if to sink into it, while that thin note had sounded so high and sharp he'd thought it would shatter him.

But no piercing cry, no sudden shadow had come. The Nazgûl had passed, leaving Frodo shaking like a leaf and weak from the afterglow of agony that surged up his left arm. It was long before he could move again, and then only slowly. Nevertheless, by the afternoon, Frodo and Sam had come all the way down to the level of the plain. There they hid in the shadows of boulders, looking out over the last little slope—some twenty feet—that lay between them and the Road. 

And the Road itself, so far as they could see looking north and south, was empty. They had passed behind the rearguard of the rearguard some hours ago, and no new companies had followed. It appeared that the Dark Lord's muster had all gone ahead down the road to the Black Gate, and perhaps the vanguard host had already begun the march on Gondor, for where else might it be bound? 

Neither Frodo nor Sam could have known that they had passed another army in the night—one moving on the westward side of the Ephel Dúath. They could not know what token the orcs of Cirith Ungol had sent to Barad-dûr, or guess the designs of the Dark Lord in his crafty malice, or what he took from the signs of these past days. 

Frodo, indeed, could hardly see anything. For pain and want of sleep, perhaps, but there was more – a thickness of nothing had settled over the world, and things... things did not appear rightly, but seemed horribly deformed. Even for Mordor, so long tortured by the Dark Lord's dwelling, things seemed sickly, invaded in every thirsty crack and crevice by that awful monotone that haunted his thoughts and dreams, so that from every corner, Frodo could 'hear' _It_ echoing, closing in on him like a swelling. He felt frantic, yet his body was sluggish, half numb and half hurt, and in any case, poisoned, betrayed from within by that mark on his arm where the Ring had been once... that scar, that mark, was seared into his flesh, burned in the midst of his cold like the cruel imprint of that single note. 

He was vaguely aware of Sam speaking to him, vaguely aware of himself answering – a 'no', he thought, a refusal. He was not certain what happened afterward – the first time in days, he realized, with sudden dread – that that had happened, but when at long last, he blinked and knew he blinked, the day was darkening. Something touched his brow, and Frodo sucked in a breath as it burned there a moment. But it was a heat without hurt, and after a moment, he shivered, then blinked again to see, dimly, Sam kneeling over him. A strange light was in his face – strange fire that came of no flame, as he said: "It's time we were getting on, Mr. Frodo."

__No_ ,  _ a part of him recoiled at the very thought, but the other part was moving already – out of habit, or mayhap something less benign. But whatever the impulse, he struggled to his feet, stood there clutching his arm, swaying, staring at that fire-crowned mountain that loomed over the plain. Yet great as it was, near as it stood, still, it was too far – a sort of infinite weariness struck him to his depths, and drained and cold, it was all he could do not to weep. 

"Mr. Frodo." Frodo dragged his eyes from the distance and saw Sam holding out his hand to him. Sam's face was unwonted grave, even in such times and trials as these, as he said: "Give me your hand."

It was then that Frodo realized his left hand was in his pocket, the Ring a molten weight in it, pressing into the flesh of his palm almost cuttingly. Yet despite horror, his fingers did not move – his fist remained clenched. Frodo could hear his own breathing, harsh in the stillness of the air, and his mouth worked soundlessly – __I can't, I can't, so help me, I can't!__ Sam bit his lip, and after a moment, drew a breath and reached – very carefully, very slowly, watching Frodo the while – for his master's arm. Battered brown fingers touched his elbow, then slid down to grasp, loosely, his forearm. 

"Please, Frodo?" Sam asked, a note of pleading entering his voice. Frodo felt his heart flutter unevenly at that, and muscle seemed to spasm with it… and then suddenly relaxed. The Ring slipped from his grip, and feeling rather as if he were moving in a dream, Frodo placed his hand limply in Sam's. Sam smiled brilliantly at him. "There now!" he said. "Just you follow me, sir, and we'll get there by and by."

"What if we don't?" The question slid past his lips, like a fish through fingers that fell to earth with a heavy, cold slap. 

"We will," Sam assured him, lifting his chin.

_You will,_ hissed the skitter of tinny echoes in his mind. Frodo shut his eyes and tried to suppress a shiver. Yes, he would – they would. And if he could not, if _they_ could not, then __It_ _ would. Swallowing hard, he opened his eyes to the towering menace that was Orodruin, and, mind filled with the tinny murmurings of the Ring, managed to nod. 

"Of course," he said hollowly in reply. But when Sam turned as if to make his way down the slope, he said quickly: "Sam!"

"Sir?" Sam paused, already worriedly eying his master. __Expecting the worst,_ _ Frodo thought. __As well he might!_ _ His face twisted then, a tic like an animal's flinching before a hateful master,his breath coming harsh, and when he spoke, it was haltingly. 

"I find... everything is so dim of late. I cannot recall – " He faltered, and teeth clenched, for it was as if there were something weighing on his tongue, robbing him of speech. __Even my words__ , he thought, but after the horror of his flight from Cirith Ungol, he couldn't even muster astonishment. Sight, sound, touch – they lay already under the Shadow. How long could speech resist? How long could words remain him?Likely, he should save the effort of them for the journey, but... 

But, he realized with dull surprise, he would miss the awful effort of these days – of these few days of wonder in a wonderless land. _Dear Sam!_ Who should not be here, but was, and whom he could remember walking with him because Frodo had been _here_ to stumble through the hurt of the past days, not elsewhere. And so he had to try, since it would be, perhaps, the last time. 

"I… I've not been myself… of late. And I feel... I feel I may go to sleep again, Sam. Maybe for good," he said, voice cracking a little, but he pushed on. "You must be careful – It's in me, you see." He looked beseechingly at Sam, willing him to understand. 

For his part, Sam but shook his head. "No fear, Mr. Frodo – I'll get you through –"

"No! You don't see. You don't understand, but you must – __I don't know what It may do__!" Frodo said hoarsely, reaching to clutch weakly at Sam's shoulder, twisting the cloth of his cloak. "You left once, and... I couldn't bear it if I – if It – if you were to be..." 

He couldn't finish. Sam stared at him a long moment, and then suddenly, amazingly, he smiled. 

"Dear Mr. Frodo," he said, gathering Frodo's hands into his own. "Now you listen to me, sir. The Enemy sent wargs and orcs and that old Shelob for us. And the wargs died, and the orcs didn't get us, and Shelob – she set us apart awhile, which was hard. But I'm here, and I don't reckon, after that," he said, eyes blazing, "that there's any weapon you've got as could hurt me." 

Sam paused, and considered the darkness that was fast falling. They stood far within the shadows of the mountains, and the plain was dim. "Dawn or dusk, we'll be in some mountain's shadow," he sighed, and then suddenly released Frodo's hands to tug the cloak from his shoulders. 

"Here," he said, as he flung it about Frodo's, pinned the leaf-clasp, and then drew the hood up. "We don't have the Lady's light, but if you have to walk in the dark, you should wear her cloak. Unfriendly eyes everywhere here, but especially out there, where there ain't no hiding I can see."

"But – _" _What about you_? _

"Don't you worry about me, sir," Sam said stoutly, then warned: "Just don't fall asleep!"

"I shall strive not to," Frodo whispered. Then swiftly: "Sam." And when Sam lifted his brows, said: "Thank you."

Sam just smiled once more, and took his hand again. "Time to go," he said softly. Frodo drew a pained breath, but he nodded, and with Sam leading, at last set foot upon Gorgoroth.


	46. The Fires of Orodruin

Night lay over Mordor. To the West of its Shadow Mounts, a little light lay flickering beneath Ithilien's eaves, guarded by ring upon ring of steel and the fearful eyes of Gondor's army. North of them the Dark Lord's orcs and allies spread out, questing south and west to meet them, while on the killing grounds, Mordor's twisted creatures crawled over the slags, snapping maws and hooked claws taking their reward in the dead, save where the Nazgûl walked. Uncloaked, they passed as terror over the field and the mounds, seeking the Ring there amid the entrails, to ensure it should not go to anyone's gullet, whether by error or ambition.

But two nights had yielded naught, and in his tower of Barad-dûr, the Dark Lord brooded, and his land trembled. Suspicion ran deep as Ages in the Lord of Mordor, and fear, twin to self-concern, ran deeper still, and he took thought therefore to secure himself and all that was his against the strangeness of the days, coiling about his vitals like a dragon.

And he sent his lusty thought out into the depths of the earth, calling, summoning, seeking as doubt fed the fires of wrath:

_Where art thou? Sing!_

 

... and on the plains of Gorgoroth, Samwise Gamgee stared up at the mountain, feeling its heat beneath his feet, and he reached and carefully drew the folds of the grey cloak over a sleeping Frodo's breast and down over his eyes.

* * *

Frodo woke suddenly to darkness. His heart raced, hammering in his chest, but exhausted and disoriented, he could find nothing in the night for fear to light upon. Nothing, save for the malice that made the eastern sky waver – and the _singing._ He held up a futile hand against it, against the harp-wire skitter of a voice that scratched at the inside of his skull. _Be silent! **Be silent** – !_

A hand clasped his, cool heat, and Frodo started.

"I'm here, Mr. Frodo." Sam's voice sounded above him as the Ring-song recoiled, retreating to a resentful golden whispering. Yet that _other_ call remained, like sunburn on the side of his face, and all along his body. Lying on Gorgoroth's shattered stone, Frodo could feel it – the very pulse of Mordor. The Ring gibbered quiet counterpoint, and the tremor in the hollow of his breast threatened to sing once more with it. He felt as a lute-string in a concert, stretched so taut he must either sing or snap...

"Nightfall's coming on," Sam observed. "'Tis nearly time to go."

"Go?" Frodo croaked, and winced slightly when his tongue stung.

"To the mountain, sir – don't you remember?" A pause, then: "You don't, do you?"

Frodo said nothing. What could he say, after all? Of the journey across the blasted plain, he could conjure but few blurred images that would not have let him name a single rock or dusty step. But he felt that passage in his bones and in every inch of bruised, bleeding flesh. Were it not for Sam, he might have remembered nothing beyond that, but along the way, he had heard Sam's voice, and felt the gentle heat of his hand against his brow, or holding Frodo's poor, nerveless fingers, and for a little while, the darkness had lifted, leaving only the night beneath the mountain.

For it was always night beneath Mount Doom. Its shadow stretched long at dawn, and from its mouth, a red-lit, cindery plume rose. Nothing so thick as before, yet it was there, a shade from the sun. The mountain's wrath ran beneath the earth, came up in hot fumes to burn eyes and nose, mouth and throat and lungs. Sometimes, Frodo had roused from his somnamublant stupor to find himself inexplicably on hands and knees, racked by coughing spasms that had made every sore muscle scream in agony, and he had thought he should die of it, of the breathlessness of it.

It had but got worse, as they had neared the mountain. By the tumbled hollow that some vast stone had made, Frodo had coughed so hard, he had spat out blood before Sam had relented and forced him to drink just a little swallow of water. And then a little more, and a little more, as slowly, the coughing had ceased, and Frodo, spent and dizzy, had lain panting in his arms.

"You just bit your tongue a little, Mr. Frodo," Sam had soothed, though for the little life left in him, Frodo had not been able to tell. His throat had felt as though he had swallowed gravel, and his tongue had been so numb and parched that despite the water, he had felt some doubt whether Sam was right.

That must have happened not long ago – perhaps just before his latest sleep, Frodo realized, and felt a faint surprise, for now he could feel that tender spot, as he gently ran his tongue about the inside of his mouth. He cracked his eyes open to a dimly-lit world that spun dizzily, reeling in a shimmer of deadly golden fire.

"Where are we, Sam?" he asked, voice cracking.

"Right under the mountain. See there? All that light and ore, like a smithy's forge in the sky?"

Frodo let loll his head and saw the mountaintop sliding in a haze of scarlet heat. It merged with the gold and everything seemed to tremble... "It sings," he whispered, mesmerized.

Sam bowed his head, and he pressed Frodo's hand more tightly. But then he shook himself and asked: "Can you sit up? There's a little water left – you should have some before we go."

Frodo shut his eyes again. Lassitude lay in every limb like infection. Could he sit up? Was there truly a reason to sit up? _What am I doing here?_ He had known once, he felt, he knew – once upon a time, he had had a reason....

"Do you remember the Shire, Sam?" Or at least, so he meant to ask. What slipped raw off his tongue, stinging as it went, was merely a weak-voiced: "... th' _Shire_ , Sam?"

Sam said nothing, and after a moment, even waiting grew too wearisome. The little desire that had moved him to ask began to slip like the words, like the mountaintop, and –

"I do." Sam paused a moment. "What should I tell you?"

Something to make him move, to give him a shred of a reason to stir, surely. Yet Frodo could but stare listlessly at him, helpless to speak. Even had he had his voice in that moment, there was simply _nothing_ left where the Shire had been, save the name – surely Sam understood this! Surely he knew why Frodo had asked! Sam, however, sighed, bowed his head, and Frodo found himself unable even to muster much by way of despair, as the Ring sang once more softly, gleefully:

_Mine, mine, thou art mine and we shall go –_

"I remember," Sam said suddenly, and Frodo twitched at the interruption, plucked from the Ring-song that had begun to rise about his ears, "how the Hill stands, and the road. I remember how it winds up to the gate at Bag End, where the rosebushes bloom." He paused, and a hand came to rest then upon Frodo's brow. "I remember that there would be these great red blossoms sticking through the slats and looking over them at you," he said, and faintly into Frodo's mind came the impression of red petals against white.

"It's springtime somewhere in the world," Sam's voice continued, painting flickering little pieces of pictures. "In the Shire, the flowers will be pushing up their beds, and folk will be out in the fields, making hay. I remember the smell of the fields under the new spring sun. It'll be warm for once, and everyone will stop and look up at her sometimes, just as they ought. Just as everything ought to be back home."

_Home!_ Desire so sharp it hurt surged to life, drowning out the word itself. In answer, as if of themselves, aching, rubbery arms clenched and fists dug into the earth. Frodo gasped in surprise. But Sam caught him and helped him to sit up, leaning him, panting, against the rocky wall of their cratered shelter.

"Here, Frodo, dear," he murmured, unstoppering the waterskin for him, and holding it to Frodo's lips. Water slid down his throat, rolled over the dust in his mouth with just a hint of salt and copper. Then Sam was restoppering the skin.

"Now, I reckon we're not a half night's walk from that great flaming pile of rocks," Sam said. "But it'll be slow going. Those hellhawks are out there somewhere – I've felt them passing over while you were asleep. We've got to be extra careful, so you just take my hand, master. And if you start to get the urge to wear _It_ , you squeeze hard, and don't let go, and keep your head down and your hood up."

In the dim, fiery light, Sam's face seemed to waver, and the golden cast of the _other_ fire lent it a sick sheen that seemed to show a decomposing flesh. But there burned in his eyes a clear, cool light that steadied the world in that moment.

"Today's the day," Sam murmured softly, and even smiled a little. "Now, let's go!"

* * *

Through the indifferent-deadly night they crawled: across the pock-marked, ashy plain. Up the boulder-strewn feet of the mountain. The malicious heart of the kingdom was their guide, drawing them ever east, ever on. They dragged across the mountain's flanks, choking on fume, sweating from the heat 'til it seemed salt alone remained in them. And, twin fire to the rage that was their lodestone, the Ring in Frodo's pocket burned.

It burned in the fumes that seeped through the earth.

It weighed with the miles.

It leaned hatefully upon every bruise, bearing down with the very air.

And it sang.

It sang inside a soul already lacerated. It sang, now like tin and iron, now like gold and steel – __take, claim, own__ , hard, hard, and sharp, like teeth, like swords sinking deeper, ever deeper, into the softness of flesh, like poisoned ice – !

" _ _Aiya-a!_ " _

"Frodo!"

But Frodo could not hear. He lay where he had fallen, curled up about himself, fingers clawing at his ears – digging into them, like some wild creature that, maddened by terror and the pain of the trap, gnaws its own limb off to try to save itself. For, something called – deep, icy-hot, hateful... and the Ring turned upon him!

A single, sharp and shrill note it sang, and to Frodo's horror, others answered – like a symphony of gongs. The whole world seemed to shiver, 'til he thought it must split, and him with it, as everything harmonized, crystalized in a single demand:

_Claim me!_

Into his mind flashed the image of eyes in a shadowed face, beneath an iron crown, and then – !

Unthinking, he reached, but another hand took his, and fire met fire. A misty veil seemed to draw across the world and through his mind. That golden, brassy voice shrieked, whimpered, then quieted, as Frodo ceased his thrashing and went limp. His breath whistled dully, and his fingers were bloody, and when he opened his eyes, he saw stars fit to blind a body. He blinked, and they faded from view, leaving him staring up at Samwise Gamgee.

"Who are you?" he gasped – or tried to. His poor sore throat rebelled at the effort, and his tongue was so numb, he could not even tell if it moved. Sam, however, seemed to need no words.

"Your servant, master," he said, kindly. "I am here to help you." Dully Frodo stared at him, and then, to his own vast surprise, he laughed – a weak wheeze of a laugh, bereft of humor and hope alike.

"There's no help for me," he croaked, voice cracking. Sam gave him a smile fit to break the heart. He reached out, laid a hand to the side of Frodo's head, heedless of the blood.

"Your poor ears," he murmured. "He's taken you one bit at a time, but you're not his yet. Not yet."

_I wish I were!_ The thought welled up uncontrollably, borne by the sudden, overwhelming desire to rest – to have it all done with, one way or another, just so he would not have to contend any longer.

"No, you don't," Sam said, and Frodo blinked. But Sam merely caught a hand and brought it to his lips, ere he warned: "We've still a ways to go yet."

It was on the tip of Frodo's tongue to protest that he could not – that even a crawl was beyond him. Instead: "How?" he mouthed. Sam took both his hands, then, squeezing tightly.

"I'll carry you," he said, simply. "And you hold tight to me when It starts singing again."

So saying, Sam drew Frodo's arms about his neck and turned about, hoisting him up on his back. But ere he could even get to his feet, Frodo, in a last effort, leaned his face against the nape of Sam's neck, and whispered:

"He comes... the pale king!"

Sam grunted, hefting his burden slightly. "I know it," he said. "Hold fast!"

<hr>

Frodo knew nothing of the last leg of the journey, save for Sam struggling along the slopes, sliding at times with the ash that lay in drifts about the mountain, at other times nearly crawling amid rocks. He was aware only of the dread that deepened, and that seemed to give the Ring back its voice. Unable to quiet it, or to still that _other_ song that beckoned, he simply lay crushed under its golden weight, clinging to Sam as tightly as he could, and tighter still when the Ring-song swelled.

Finally, however, after he knew not how long, Sam slowed, came to a stop and knelt down. "Look there, Mr. Frodo," he whispered. "Can you see it? Lift your head – try!"

Like a drunkard, Frodo managed to raise his head and look – and so he beheld at last a great door that stood gaping in the side of the mountain. An ominous firelight flickered in its shadows, and from its threshold ran a road. It wound its way down the mountain and thence, surely, straight east to Barad-dûr.

And it was absolutely empty.

"We'll try to go up as close as we can without the road," Sam murmured after a moment. "Try to lie flat on me – I'm going to crawl."

So saying, Sam leaned forward onto his hands, and coaxed Frodo's hands from about his chest to about his neck, gripping them firmly with one of his own.

"Slow and steady, that's the way," he breathed, and then began creeping awkwardly forward, staying as much in the shadows of the boulders as he could. Sam put one knee forward and then his hand, then the other knee forward, then the hand again, like a three-legged mule.

Only a three-legged mule might have gone more quickly – they crept forward at what seemed a snail's very pace. Sometimes, Sam had to stand up to get them over gaps and across little ridges, but mostly he kept to his desperate crawl, pace by pace.

They might have managed ten yards or two hundred – it was all one to Frodo's darkened senses – when suddenly, something shrieked on high. Fire ran up his arm; the sound of it pierced deep, and Frodo's face twisted in soundless agony. He nearly let go of Sam, desperate to cover his ears, but it was not the cry of the fell beast that deafened – the Nazgûl was calling, and the Ring answered, singing a glory of riches.

In that moment, Sam abandoned caution. He lurched to his feet, hefted Frodo pig-a-back, and with more speed and surety than Frodo – had he been able to muster astonishment or calculation – would have thought him to possess at this desperate last gasp, dashed for the road and the looming door. The uneven stones gave way to the smooth path, which passed in a grey blur beneath Sam's feet – a grey that darkened with a spreading darkness. Dim as the light was, it still cast shadows, and the shadow of the winged terror fell over them on a foul and roiling wind.

In a last burst, Sam was up that path and he threw himself across that threshold, beneath the shelter of the lintel. Frodo went tumbling free, and skidded painfully to a stop. There he lay, facing back toward the door, just as, with a shriek and a scaly, fleshy _thud!_ , and a great draft of heat, the fell beast landed heavily upon the very stoop. Robbed of its prey, it cried out again, seeming in pain now as a leg buckled, and then it seemed to trip on the narrowness of the elevated little way, its claws scrabbling against the paving stones, chipping them.

Its rider, however, leapt down from his seat, and Frodo, sight sharpened by his Burden, saw through the seeming-emptiness of the robes. A bone-white face beneath a dead-grey helm confronted him, and a flaming sword in a withered fist. One gauntleted hand stretched forth – _Give it to me!_ – and something hot and hard and fearful stirred in Frodo, sending a sudden rush of warmth through numb and aching limbs. With a hoarse cry, he wove to his feet, scrambling desperately, clumsily backward, clutching at the Ring in his pocket.

It was useless. They were at the very heart of Mordor, and Frodo worn thinner than a wire. With a laughing hiss, the Nazgûl cast aside its cloak, and rent its robes. Unveiled in its terror, it advanced upon him; its twisted Song surged to meet the Ring's –

– and then Samwise Gamgee stood up in its path. The Nazgûl stopped dead, for, a fire burned within that small figure, and made its outline waver. Or perhaps that was a trick of overweary, much abused eyes. Frodo blinked, rubbed at them, looked again. But yes, there stood Sam, and a Light was upon him such as Frodo had seen only once and dimly reflected in the face of her who guarded Lórien's secret ways. Cool and hot at once, that radiance burned away at the darkness, and the Nazgûl hissed, retreating a pace, the fire of its sword dimmed.

"Sam?" Frodo whispered.

"Your servant," his companion called back with a joyfulness all out of place in this hopeless hall, but he did not look back. Instead, he raised up his arms and with that gesture, the semblance of Sam simply dissolved in a brilliant radiance.

Frodo was not sure what happened then. His eyes were dazzled by that Light, which rippled and whipped now like silver fire. The wraith-song keened in harsh dismay, but its jangling notes fell before the surge of the bold melody that sang in the heart of that cleansing flame. A great wind came swirling up, as Light exploded in every direction and struck the Nazgûl full to the core of its being.

The wraith's shriek was a death-knell and it seemed to Frodo that something had come very suddenly Undone. The Ring in his clenched fist seemed to cool and it rang with fear: _Run! Flee!_ Blinded, Frodo flinched, turning away as legs moved of their own volition, carrying him from the battle behind him, propelling him further down the hall. As the dazzle-spots faded from view, Frodo found himself confronted with a less wholesome light that grew as his stumbling steps brought him through a fissure and into the Sammath Naur itself, at long last.

The Chambers of Fire opened suddenly, vaulting upward in a vast hollow, filled with sulfurous fume. From the little ledge where he stood now, the earth fell away to reveal a sea of molten rock that bubbled and hissed. The air rippled with heat, buffeting him as he staggered to a halt.

And at the very edge of the precipice, terrible in his dark armor, there stood one in shape of a Man, who turned from contemplation of the mountain's fiery heart. Frodo felt himself paralyzed, like a troll in daylight. For, there were but four ringed fingers upon the hand that that hideous figure raised, and when he spoke, Frodo staggered back as if struck a blow. Overwhelmed, went to his knees.

For, it was as if with that Word, the world trembled. Stone, heat, fire, flesh – their semblance shimmered and fell away. All the world dissolved, became nothing but Sound: a storied, towering vastness of Notes swirling all about.

The last veil had been stripped away. The Great Music, in all its tattered desperation, fell into his mind.

Frodo must have screamed. No mortal creature, nor even the immortal Elder Children of Arda, could have borne such naked Truth, an exposure without mercy. Frodo could not. _Hide! Hide!_ cried the little sanity in him. Clumsy hands were sure in this moment – he slipped the Ring on...

 

... and _everything_ disappeared, save the grey and the Ring's own melody that crafted visions:

 

__In the hazy green depths, it sang, and hands hot with blood grasped, fought, slew for it -__ "My precious!" __

__Amid the carrion and glory of war, there rose one in his grief and strength to look and love –__ "This I will keep – "

__And somewhere in the darkness, one stood chanting:_ _

"Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, Ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul!"

 

Frodo recoiled, but that Fire-song refrain remained, terrible and relentless, an unclean and monstrous Flame.

Yet something – the little corner that held forgotten memories – stirred in him, then. Perhaps the virtue of that other Fire that had touched him and sent him to the very Cracks of Doom worked yet in him. He drew himself painfully up, and a little, thin light gleamed about him, cleared the ashiness of the world, the darkness of the Fire before him. And Frodo perceived, then, that despite the power and might of the Dark Lord, that he was afraid – for, the heart of his kingdom lay open to the forge-fires on all sides but one, and it would be but a few steps to the long way down...

That knowledge roused a spark of something Frodo had not felt in long – something that might be hope, or else hate. Shakily, he held up his hand and pulled the Ring free. Its image wavered in the heat, but its voice held steady, a malign monotone, as the Dark Lord bore down upon Frodo like a crescendo. Defiance spoke in him then: _I do not yield to you!_ From on his knees, Frodo lunged toward the hungry sea of molten fire.

He could not have said, in that moment, what moved him more: the desire to deny the Dark Lord, or the desire to lay down all burdens in a final rest. He knew only that there was no will in him that could have cast the Ring away, and so his path was clear.

But a Ring of Power has its own will, and does not go quietly into the dark. The Ring and the Dark Lord cried out as one: their twin cry pierced like a sword, and the worse for tearing aside, in that moment, a little of the cobwebbed darkness that had clotted Frodo's mind. Memories of green and blue slipped through the gap, wrapped in the silence of a summer's day...

_The Shire!_

_Home!_ Longing welled up, but not his alone: the Ring keened. _Yes,_ it sang, _yes, take us there – take us home! We want to go home – !_

The Song-world shimmered once more, and Frodo found himself face down upon Mordor's sweltering hearthstones, battered and exhausted, his fist clenched – and he knew, then, that he had failed. The Dark Lord stood over him even now, and the ledge, he knew, lay just a little beyond his outstretched hand. He had fallen too far short of it, and there was nothing left but despair.

A little, wispy silver something flickered then, lighting upon his brow to chime softly: _Not yet, not yet! Let it go!_ But he couldn't – not to save his life.

_I'm sorry,_ he thought faintly, as an immense, hard hand that burned grasped his arm. Frodo moaned – a raw, wordless noise he almost did not recognize as his. More akin to a wounded ewe's bleating it seemed. For, that grip crushed – it broke bone with hardly a thought, and seared through flesh. Dizzy with pain, Frodo felt himself lifted and he hung there, suspended, blood running down his arm.

The Dark Lord, it had been said, had learned all the measures of the forces of the world – all those fit to measure him, spirit of fire, who had never cared to learn the frailty of other beings, unless to use them. What matter to him, if bones in their weakness could break or blood boil?

Yet the world is neither fire or spirit, and nerveless fingers obeyed no will, nor any law but frailty's: Frodo's hand went limp in that cruel, crushing grip.

A small, golden circlet gleamed once as it slipped through his fingers and then fell. Its little ringing was lost in the roar of the flames – and the horror of the Dark Lord, who threw aside his victim like a rag doll...

 

_The Great Music is over all, but not all is sung or seen. Beyond the eyes even of the soul it sings on, and shifts as voices rise and fall silent._

_From the heart of the Dark Land, heart-notes rise – one clear, one high, and a dreadful dark descending shriek, as a golden note falls, strikes rock._

_The earth trembles: in Gondor, the towers of Minas Tirith sway, and the orcs in Moria cry out in alarm. The seas overrun the quays of Mithlond. In Lórien, Galadriel's Mirror cracks._

_  
_

_And then? What future in that ringing? In the scattered notes that gather now, seeking a new measure on a swell of what might be chance?_

_  
_

_Or not. There is something - some note, someone? - in the depths - in the deepness of depth - of that ringing, in the sound as in the silence, and the song[splits](http://henneth-annun.net/stories/chapter_view.cfm?stid=8&spordinal=47) in [twain](http://henneth-annun.net/stories/chapter_view.cfm?stid=8&spordinal=48) ..._

 

 


	47. Discant

_From the heart of the Dark Land, heart-notes rise – one clear, one high, and a dreadful dark descending shriek, as a golden note falls, strikes rock... and stays._

_Lamentation!_

_The world and its fate bend, as Darkness falls across the lands._   
  


– The Lonely Mountain is shut; the dead fill Dale, and at Pelargir, the Swanship flies beside the city banner, as men of all southerly lands arm themselves within its walls, for –

\- there is smoke and there is death, in the mountain vales, in the Golden Woods. Within the wreckage of a white city, an old man in black stands straight and tall, and lets fall the torchfire that will consume all. The crows are rising...

The gloom has gathered. Night falls beneath Mirkwood – we are in the dark. But from Rhosgobel to Dol Guldur strides the drab old man, with all the owls for his eyes –

The plains are burning, and the horses shriek. From the high, cold passes, she marks the flames: daughter of kings, now queen of hearts that beat still in their mourning –

– and in the West, the shadows lengthen; they outstay the seasons, grow long as years. The little lamps that light up the dark slowly pool in the Havens. Elves and Men and hobbitkind come to shelter on the shores – Mithlond fills with greying lives and still the storm advances.

_Unbearable! Unbearable! – the chorus of the long lament – sings in every life, in every death – to what end?_   
  


_Is there anything beyond the end?_

_  
_

_Is there aught to answer what lives within the heart, when all other light and love go out?_

_  
_

_Or do we cry out to nothing and to no one when cry we must? Does the utmost heart's desire at last deceive?_

_Or can it measure what even the Wise cannot foresee? Can we know?_

_  
_

_Can anyone?_

 

The boy on the beach builds castles for the tides – Arrandir Ben-adar. He has a little starlight in his face – his mother's light, that never now shall go to Elvenhome. She stands still brave unbowed upon the strand and sings her sorrow to the sea. For if she laments not now, then there will surely be none to grieve them all later. 

Peregrin Took, untimely grey salting his hair, wanders the shore hard by, and thinks the setting sun is wrathful. Red and wrathful – sign of the fire to come. Battle looms, and death haunts the streets of the Havens.

_But in the shadows pooling by the Withywindle, old Tom Bombadil, lamenting his lost lilies, finds a tune on the western wind: an old song, from the days when Arda had been whole, and yet there is a new harmony in it. Present heads, bounded in a golden circle's bend, perhaps cannot hear it. The children, though, may learn it. He tips his hat to the Sickle..._

... as on the beach, Peregrin Took cries out and points to shapes the sun disgorges: "Look!"

For, there are eagles on the air – great eagles, that dive and wing their way to shore on the sea-wind. All eyes in Mithlond fix upon them as they soar overhead. Their keening fills the air and every ear.

'Tis Arwen whose eye the rising Evenstar first draws, shining above the sea. And so she sees, and laughs, and cries aloud, and lifts her son to look upon the world remade.

For from the watchtower of the Havens the sentry's unlooked for tidings drift:  


" _Cîr! Cîr uin annûn!_ Ships from the West!"

 

 


	48. Notes

Chapter notes from last three chapters:

From: _The Fires of Orodruin_ :

_The Great Music is over all, but not all is sung or seen. Beyond the eyes even of the soul it sings on, and shifts as voices rise and fall silent.:_

__"And some have said that the vision ceased ere the fulfillment of the Dominion of Men and the fading of the Firstborn; wherefore, though the Music is over all, the Valar have not seen as with sight the Later Ages or the ending of the World" - "Ainulindalë," _The Silmarillion_ , 9.

From _Discant_ :

_Or can it measure what even the Wise cannot foresee?_ : "If he regains it, your valour is vain, and his victory will be swift and complete: so complete that none can foresee the end of it while the world lasts." - Gandalf, "The Last Debate," RoTK. However: "Who of all the wise could have foreseen it? Or if they are Wise, why should they expect to know it, until the hour has struck?" - Elrond, "The Council of Elrond," FoTR.

_Cîr! Cîr uin annûn!_ – I think this is correct. If it is, _Ardalambion_ and the compiler of the _Parviphith_ are to be credited. If not, feel free to correct me so I can change it.

"Discant": "countermelody either composed or improvised above a familiar melody" ([Dictionary.com](</span></span>http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/discant))

From _Oilima Markirya_ :

The title itself is from Tolkien's original title for the poem, which means "The Last Ark." See here: [Markirya](http://folk.uib.no/hnohf/markirya.htm).

The _Namarië_ song is in "Farewell to Lórien" in FOTR.

* * *

To everyone who stuck with this story from August, 2001, when the first chapter of _Lie Down in the Darkness, Rise Up from the Ash_ was posted, to today – thank you! I hope you enjoyed the story and that the ending feels worth the wait, though I have my fears on that count. I am sorry for the long intervals in between updates, and particularly for the last two years, when I could not seem to move Frodo across Mordor. His head-space and mine just didn't want to cooperate with each other for the longest time.

To everyone who beta-read various chapters of this, or e-mailed to note that I'd missed a word, dropped a clause, or made some other error, or who helped me with Sindarin or Anglo-Saxon grammar – thank you! In this regard, Alawa, Ainaechoiriel, HF, Thundera Tiger, and especially Altariel and Isabeau of Greenlea deserve special thanks for their help, but I'm sure I'm forgetting people. If you are one of those whom I have overlooked, I apologize. Know that your help did make a difference.

Finally, thank you Raksha, Patti and Altariel for reader feedback on the first-published ending that prompted me to return to the original design of two epilogues. I hope this is clearer and that you can all forgive my regression to being a twelve year-old who loved "Choose Your Own Adventure" books.

Dwim


	49. Oilima Markirya

_From the heart of the Dark Land, heart-notes rise – one clear, one high, and a dreadful dark descending shriek, as a golden note falls, strikes rock... and falls._

_The fire leaps in joy: its smokes rise sweet upon the East Wind, who blows free and fierce, bringing tidings to the west._

_The skies are swept clean – ash falls over Pelennor, and rains upon Ithilien, glitters over Rohan and dusts the Shire, even._ _In Lórien, Galadriel lifts her face to the sunlight, as Nenya sings and then subsides, makes way for a new harmony woven round nine dear, familiar songs..._

 

 

May 10th, 3025

 

There was something strange about the day. There was a stillness to it: even the gulls seemed subdued, and the dragonflies' drone whisper-thin. It was as if the very mountains were exhaling a silence... a _smallness_ , almost, as if they were bowing their lofty heads.

"Raneg?" The boy lay still and silent as the day upon the strand, his ear pressed to the earth. But the call came again: "Raneg!"

He should go – he should rise and go to his mother before she sent Halbarad to find him...

But no, Halbarad was abroad since Tuesday, gone on some errand for Lord Círdan and his mother.

" _Raneg!_ "

With a sigh, he rose and brushed the sand from his clothes and face and hair, then scrambled regretfully along the stony way. Sandstone riddled by wind and water left many pools and places for a young boy to explore. He had been the starfish king that morn, and watched the hermit crabs scuttling about, while sailors hastened along the quays, carrying goods, checking sail and rigging – making all ready.

For, Lord Círdan and his people were leaving at last.

The boy closed a hand about the pearl that hung upon a silver cord about his neck. The Shipwright had given it to him last night.

"To remember me by," Círdan had said, and then: "Who wears it has the care of the Havens in his hands."

"Shouldn't Mother have it?" he had asked.

"She has other cares – the people look to her for guidance. She is their Lady. But to you, I give care of this place, and this land that has so long been our home. Keep it well, so that later, it may keep you and yours well," Círdan had answered.

To keep the Havens and care for them seemed a very great chore, one he had no idea how to do, but he had promised the Shipwright he would, and he meant to... once he knew how. Círdan had seemed well pleased, at least.

"Raneg!" He raised his arm and waved to his mother, who saw and made for him, stepping lightly among the sandstone crags. She held out her hand to him as she neared, and he clasped it. With a soft grunt, she turned and, to his delight, swung him over a little gap. "I should have kept you closer," she told him. "We are wanted on the quays. It is time."

The boy blinked, and glanced up at her, then over at the docks. Indeed, folk had gathered there – all of Mithlond, it seemed. His heart sank. "Must they really leave now? I thought Halbarad would come back first!"

"We shall hope he has. But the tide turns, and the sea beckons. Come," she urged, and swept him up in her arms, lengthening her stride, and for all he felt himself too old to be carried like a babe, he did not protest. For if Lord Círdan and all the Elves were leaving this very hour, he would not miss their sailing.

No one would miss it. All along the quays, and in the street that ran along the dockside, the refugee Dúnedain had gathered. Young and old, they stood – a patient throng, and silent as the day itself. Silver stars winked here and there among the folds of cloaks as the crowd parted to let his mother pass. He watched heads bow, and felt their eyes upon him when she set him down so that he could walk the last way with her.

Upon the dock stood Círdan, his hair gleaming silver in the sun; a little to one side of him stood an old, brown-robed man, leaning upon a staff and with a beard that surely swept his knees. But beyond him, there were a man and woman that he did not know, save that they were too familiar from his mother's stories: Celeborn of Doriath, and the Lady Galadriel turned to stare gravely down upon him.

" _Mae govannen, hên nín_ ," Galadriel greeted him, and then held out her arms to his mother: " _A! Mír nín._ "

" _Daernaneth,_ " she murmured. " _Daeradar._ "

The old man meanwhile looked upon the reunion, as Lord Círdan joined the lord and ladies, then he looked down at the boy standing anxiously by.

"Well-met, lad," he said, and held out his hand. "You must be Arrandir."

"Yes," Arrandir answered, clasping that hand, ere asking in turn: "Who are you?"

"A very good question, but since we've little time, you may simply call me Radagast."

"You're a wizard!"

"I was," Radagast replied, but then raised his seamed face at the sound of horses' hoofs clattering over the cobblestone. In the road, beyond the crowd, a horse and a pony appeared. As they reached the quay, they came to a stop, their riders leaping down from their backs. They left their mounts untied, trusting them to remain there as they hurried forward. "Ah. Excellent timing," the wizard pronounced.

The crowd murmured, but shifted again to let the newcomers through – a Ranger, and one who, by his height, could have been his son, save that the face was not young enough, and the tousled brown curls that framed it had too much grey salting them. Halbarad and Peregrin Took hastened to join them.

"My lady, my lords," Pippin said, sounding just a bit out of breath. "It seems we came just in time to say farewell!"

"To us, perhaps. But I think you will be very welcome here, if you will stay for a little while," Galadriel replied, glancing at Arwen, and then at Arrandir. Then stepping back, she gestured minutely to Círdan.

The Shipwright stood forward, then, and Arwen quietly moved to stand behind Arrandir, placing her hands on his shoulders, as Halbarad and Pippin fell back a pace or two. Círdan smiled down upon him, then spoke so that all could hear who stood by:

"Our time in Middle-earth has ended; Elvenhome calls us now beyond the Sundering Seas. Much has been lost, and many have perished who should be here to enjoy the fruits of their struggle. They have given more than can we, but perhaps some little grace is left us to give."

So saying, he laid a hand upon Arrandir's head, and said: "In the darkest days, the Dúnedain stood with us upon the walls, and waited on the tidings from the east with sword and bow. And though we were spared, Gondor is shattered, and Rohan ravaged, and the land of your forebears destroyed. Therefore, what we have made here is yours now to hold, for your people and for memory of ours, and of the friendship that has bound us. Will you take this gift and this charge from us, Arrandir Ben-adar?"

It was the same question from last night. Arrandir had said 'yes' to it already, but plainly, that had been practice of a sort. Aware of all eyes upon him, and the of weight of that hand, and of the glimmering knowledge that what he said now, he said as the son of his mother and the father who was one among the many absent givers, he drew himself up, and nodded.

"I will," he said. And then, because his mother insisted he mind his manners: "Thank you, Lord Círdan."

Círdan smiled at him, then put one hand to either cheek and leaned down and kissed his brow. "Then take root and grow anew; prosper, and remember us. Farewell, child. My lady Evenstar. Master Took. We shall remember you – always."

"Farewell," Pippin said, and Arrandir blinked away tears, for he could not remember a time without the Shipwright.

The Elves and Radagast boarded the grey ship then – the last elven ship in the harbor – and in a flurry of activity, the sailors made ready to depart. The anchor lifted; the sails unfurled and caught the breeze. With a groaning of masts, the ship turned and cut out into the bay, while from the shore, the people sang:

_Ai! laurië lantar lassi súrinen,_  
yéni únótimë ve rámar aldaron!  
Yéni ve lintë yuldar avánier  
mi oromardi lissë-miruvóreva  
Andúnë pella, Vardo tellumar  
nu luini yassen tintilar i eleni  
ómaryo airetári-lírinen.  
Sí man i yulma nin enquantuva?  
An sí Tintallë Varda Oiolossëo  
ve fanyar máryat Elentári ortanë  
ar ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë  
ar sindanóriello caita mornië   
i falmalinnar imbë met,  
ar hísië untúpa Calaciryo míri oialë.  
Sí vanwa ná, Rómello vanwa, Valimar!  
Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar!  
Nai elyë hiruva! Namárië!

The ship dwindled in the distance, and a silence fell once more. To Arrandir, it seemed as though somehow, the heavens had lowered. The elven ship gleamed upon the horizon, and then was lost in the glitter of the sea and the closeness of the sky.

A sigh seemed to go up among those gathered, and Pippin wiped at his eyes with a handkerchief. But he glanced up at Arwen, and with a slight, sad smile, reached up and patted her hand. His mother lowered her gaze to him, and smiled in return, then looked to Halbarad.

"Thus passes the Age," she said, and then squeezed Arrandir's shoulders. "Come, gentlemen – there is much to do in this new world."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
